Moloch: Reunion
by mamfa
Summary: Two years after 'Genesis,' it's Toby's five year high school reunion - and he's brought the olds. Blood flies, mayhem ensues, and schnapps is consumed with wild abandon. And somewhere, he comes to a reconciliation with what was one helluva adolescence.


Toby's mine, the rest are Marvel's. I have no money – all you'll get outta me is a scruffy ginger cat and a scowl.   
Oh, you want an entertaining blurb? Just read the story.  
  
Moloch: Reunion  
  
It seemed at some point, they had all been given different, additional names. At first they were very funny, but after   
time, most got used to it. Jean was now called "Mummy," and Scott "Daddy." Hank was still mortified over being   
renamed "Unca Hankie." Logan was indifferent about "Unca Wogan," but Cable winced every time the name   
"Naaaaaffan?" came floating down the hall. Remy couldn't stop himself from smirking every time "Auntie   
Cecewia," "Unca Wawwen," or "Unca Bishie" was uttered. Revenge was garnered in the infamous "Unca Wemy."   
Kurt was fairly tranquil about being called "Unca Elfie." Rogue couldn't stop herself hugging the red-headed boy   
every time he said "Wogue." Jubilee would sigh at "Juuubie?" and Ororo would scowl at "Auntie Stormy" – usually   
at Remy. Toby and Penny got off lightly, with "Unca Toby" and "Auntie Penny," though Birdy had to live with   
"Missus Cweed." Victor didn't seem to mind "Unca Sabe," though Scott and Jean had made a very pointed request   
of Toby to keep his basket-case father away from their son.  
But the nickname little Alex gave the professor would go down in history. He had tried to emulate Logan's old   
nickname of "Chuck," and so Charles Xavier was now affectionately known throughout the entire X-network as   
"Unca Chuckie."  
Alex had just turned four. He had bright red hair and big green eyes, a freckled nose, a pronounced speech   
impediment from overlarge front baby teeth, and usually, a pout. He was like any young, active child just out of   
toddler-hood, except for his strange family, whom he delighted in tormenting. Today it was Toby and Penny's turn   
for the early morning visit.  
Toby woke from his dream with a slight snort. He hadn't snored his entire life, until he turned twenty-one. Suddenly,   
he sounded like a freight train in an echoing tunnel. Snoring when you have choral voices is something to be worried   
about. Until he'd learned to tone it down, they'd had complaints from their neighbors.  
It drove Yvette completely crazy at first, but she gradually got used to it. He'd been snoring for over two years at her,   
and she complained on average every two weeks, which made it 56 times, he calculated vaguely. He was always a bit   
bizarre when he woke up.  
Then he heard the pad of little feet outside their bedroom door, and chuckled, folding his arms behind his head.   
Penance mumbled something that sounded like "Wumuffleumble," and rolled into the permanent indentation left by   
his weight. By mutual silent consent, he slept in the middle of the bed. Otherwise they both ended up on his side.   
And he had to admit, it was comforting to have her weight pressed against him as gravity did its job. She fit so well   
against him that he never had to accommodate her, or she him.   
My soul slid into place next to hers, and nevermore shall it roam, he thought idly, his claws dancing over her hair as   
he awaited their visitor. Poetic, Creed. Who'da thunk it?  
Alex periodically tried to surprise Toby. It was virtually impossible, but he kept trying, and Toby kept encouraging   
him, much to Jean's despair. When Toby obviously wanted to sleep in (or if he and Yvette were otherwise occupied   
– three cheers for a telepathic mother!) then 'Lex would go and pester his Unca Hankie, or his Unca Wogan, or his   
Unca Bobby, or his bruvver Naaaaaffan. Cable, surprisingly, was wonderful with the kid, even when he was   
caffeine-deprived. Toby suspected that it brought up all his bittersweet memories of Tyler.   
The click of the door-handle was soft, but to Toby it was as loud as if 'Lex had been standing by his ear, singing at   
the top of his lungs, "I'm comin' to annoy you, Unca Toby!" Toby raised an eyebrow as the door was pushed silently   
back, a small freckled face poking curiously from behind it. His chubby hand held an envelope of some description.  
"Morning, 'Lex," Toby said conversationally.  
Alex pouted. "Poo! You're awake!"  
"I am, but Auntie Penny isn't," Toby winked at Alex, before tilting his head toward his sleeping lover.   
Alex's face lit back up, and with a whoop and a leap, he was burrowing under the covers. Penance groaned.  
"What in the name of all the little gods is going on, Toby?" she mumbled grumpily.   
"It's good to see you too," Toby answered drily. "We have a small, slightly smelly visitor."  
"Right, that's it," she groused, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. A giggle came from somewhere under the   
bedclothes. "Scott and Jean will have to live without him. I'm going to tickle that red-headed menace to death."  
A squeal told them that this news was received and understood. "Noooo!" Alex protested, squirming as Penance   
hunted about the bed for him. "You can't! I'm th' paperboy. Mummy tole me so. I'm s'posed to give you bofe dis!"   
He brandished the envelope at them like a shield. Penance narrowed her eyes.   
"I think our paperboy is getting lax in his duties," she remarked, yawning.  
Toby shared a look with Alex that clearly said, No amount of coffee will ever make her a morning person. Then Toby   
exclaimed aloud.  
"What's the crest on the envelope? Isn't that…?"  
Penance had to wrestle Alex for it, but it was eventually presented, slightly crumpled and amid much giggling, into   
his hands. He smoothed it out, before gasping.   
"It is! That's the Salem Center Grammar School crest! And that's Wallace's handwriting!" Toby raised his eyebrows   
at Penance in surprise. She blinked at him, before turning to Alex.  
"Do you know why your uncle Toby is so excited?"  
Alex shook his head. "Nope."  
"Neither. Shall we wait until he deigns to enlighten us?"  
"Whazzat mean?"  
'All right, already," Toby growled. "Salem Center Grammar was my school. Mr. Wallace was my English teacher."  
"You're too owld to go to school, awen't you?" Alex peered up at him, his little train pyjamas skewed and his fiery   
hair sticking out everywhere. "You're…"  
"Twenty-three," Toby said, amused. Alex looked awed.  
"S'at owlder or younger than Dad?"  
"Younger. Your Dad's thirty-five." Toby stretched out a bit, before he slid a claw beneath the envelope crease and   
used it as a letter-opener.  
"Whazzit say?!"  
"Good grief." Toby's mouth quirked, before he answered Alex. "It's an invitation."  
"Ooh! C'n I come?"  
"Nah, it's a big-people party. You'd be bored."  
Alex glanced at Penance again, before scooting further towards the avidly-reading Toby. "No games? No lollies?"  
Toby shook his head solemnly. "Nope."  
Alex sniffed. "Not much of a party, then."  
Once the little boy had gone to pester his Unca Elfie, Toby turned back to the letter.   
Dear Mr. Creed,  
You are hereby cordially invited to the fifth anniversary reunion of the graduating class of 20**.   
The reunion is to be held at the Salem Center Town Hall on the twentieth of September, at 6:45pm.  
Dress is to be black tie.  
Reservations for you and up to three guests have been made. Please RSVP as soon as possible, so that the   
numbers may be finalized.  
Yours sincerely,  
R Harding (Principal)  
Underneath the stylized card bearing the school's crest and contact details (like he would ever forget) was a   
handwritten note. He couldn't stop the grin that spread madly across his face at the words.  
Greetings and salutations, my absent Lord.  
I trust you have been well? Your correspondence has been slacking off lately. I hope nothing   
untoward has occurred. I find my grasp of recent events has started to slip since you flew the proverbial   
coop.  
I would like nothing better than to see you again. Do come to the reunion, and please try to avert any last-  
minute missions? And bring your lovely partner, of whom you write so amorously.   
Eagerly waiting your answer,  
Henry Wallace.  
Three guests.   
Toby tapped his claw against the cardboard. He'd love to see Wallace again. He'd written (not very frequently, to be   
honest) but it never captured that sense of educated wonder, of discovery and passion that had characterized any and   
all of Wallace's lessons. He missed the Englishman's ebullient, effusive, dramatic optimism, his sharp and enquiring   
mind, their mad enthusiasm and shouting matches before the bell rang.   
Three guests…  
Well, it was clear that anyone he invited would be a mutant. Yvette, naturally. She simply had to meet Wallace – and   
Harding – and Tom, and Andy, and Joe. Who else could he invite? He pondered the notion a while. Not Hank.   
Possibly Rogue? Jubilee?  
The idea that struck him was so outrageously audacious that his own eyes widened. He tried not to choke on his own   
laughter as he reached for the phone.  
  
"No." Toby was adamant. He folded his arms, and leaned back against the kitchen bench.  
"But I'm going to be busy…" Nate wheedled.  
"So am I."  
"Where are you off to, then?" asked Cecelia as she wandered in. There was blue fur in her hair, Toby noted, and then   
he sighed. Bad enough that Sabretooth and Birdy were living together in Manhattan once more, but did everyone he   
considered some sort of parental figure need to squick him out before breakfast?  
"My high school reunion."  
"And you'd rather go to that than lead this covert op?" Cable exclaimed. Toby raised an eyebrow and gestured   
around him, indicating his world in an elegant sweep of an arm.  
"Wouldn't you?" he asked with a vindictive smirk.  
"If you're only going to rub their faces in…" Nathan began, but then a small hand tugged on his sweatpants.   
"Naaaaaffan?"   
Cable sighed, and picked his half-brother (sort of) up. "Yes, 'Lex?"  
"I wanna stowy."  
"Not now, okay?"  
"Now! Unca Wogan won't tell me one, but dat's okay cos yours are better. Tell me a stowy!"  
Cable gave the chuckling Cecelia a sour look. "Not. One. Word."  
"Who, me?"  
"And you…" he turned back to Toby, but he was gone. "Oh, flonq."  
"See if you can get Bobby to take it," Cecelia suggested, as the coffeepot bubbled and Alex pulled on his bruvver's   
silvery hair.   
"On his engagement anniversary?"  
"Oh. Remy wouldn't much like that, would he?"  
"You're looking at rebuilding the mansion."  
"How about… why not ask Ororo or Logan? Or even Bishop?"  
"I didn't think of that."  
"Obviously. Now, are you going to tell that child a story?"  
"Relinquish the coffee, and I'll think about it."  
  
"I don't see why I have to wear a fuckin' suit."   
"Language, Vic."  
They were crammed into the back seat of Hank's cranky, belaboured little car, the Scarlet Pumpernickel. Sabretooth   
was taking up most of the room, and Penance and Birdy were crammed into the remaining space. They'd been   
complaining since the moment they left.  
Hank never let anyone else drive the Pumpernickel, so he was stubbornly ensconced in the driver's seat. Toby, by   
general consent and for the sake of Hank's unpaid insurance premiums, rode shotgun. Two people the size of the   
Creeds squished into the back could break the plucky little automobile. Should that happen, Hank would break them.  
"Because you look good in suits," Toby said in a conciliatory tone. "Besides, you'll be surrounded by the imbeciles I   
went to school with. Think how many you'll be able to intimidate."  
"Don't encourage him," said Birdy sternly. Her silvery-blond hair was twisted into a French roll, she wore a satiny   
slip of blue-grey, and her still-slim arms were bare.   
"But Mom," Toby protested, all innocence, "That's why I invited him."  
Creed snorted. Penance harrumphed. She was, of course, wearing black – the same beautiful black gown she had   
worn when he'd first fallen for her. Only her body was harder now, more sculpted – the result of non-stop active   
service in the X-Men. The laces at the back of the corset were tighter, the muscles in her bare shoulders and back   
more defined. She looked, as he had often thought, about three hundred percent of pure womanly vitality, despite her   
lingering hatred of high heels. And with her usual quiet determination, she had left the image inducer at home.  
Toby was wearing a new three-piece suit. Unsurprisingly, it was black. But this time, he'd gone and bought the   
pinstripes, along with a high-collared russet shirt that matched Yvette's skin. The stripes made his already rangy,   
long body look even longer. Creed looked like a runaway member from the cast of Cats crammed into a tux. Of   
course, inside the Pumpernickel, everything was crammed. He wore his unusual finery with the same unconcern and   
indifference as he did spandex. And from the way the suit slid over his skin and hugged to the flesh of his legs, it   
surely provided more food for the imagination. Between the four, they were going to turn some speculative heads,   
that was for sure.  
"You don't need me to pick you up, do you?" Hank asked as he pulled up outside the town hall. It was 6:38 by the   
Pumpernickel's clock.   
Toby looked enquiringly back at his father, who gave him a disgusted look. Toby snarled back in a habitual manner,   
before turning to Penance. She arched a refined eyebrow. He sighed.  
"No," he answered wearily.   
Hank grinned as they filed (fell) out of the little old car. "Then I'll see you tommorrow."  
"Yeah," said Toby gloomily. Penance and Birdy were smoothing each other's dresses, and Creed was preening.   
There was no other word for it.   
"Enjoy your night," Hank told them, before taking off. Toby imagined that the poor old Pumpernickel moved a lot   
faster without them inside it.  
"Well?" Creed asked him.  
"Well what?"  
"Raaargh!"  
"Don't do that. You know it provokes him," said Birdy in a long-suffering tone. "And you're not the one who has to   
try and sleep with a borderline nutcase."  
Toby winced. Too much information. "No, I am," said Penance with a teasing grin.  
"We're outmatched," Creed informed Toby casually. "I ain't never beat Birdy at words."  
"Seems so," said Toby gloomily. "When did it become "Kick a Creed" day?"  
"Since now," said Penance, tossing her head. Toby scowled, before brightening.   
"Come on. I want everyone to pant with envy at my partner."  
  
The town hall was a venerable old building with high arched bay windows around a central foyer area leading to a   
staircase, which wound down into a beautifully appointed dinner room. Toby led Penance on his arm as he had over   
four years ago, her skirts sweeping out behind her. Eyes turned, and jaws dropped. Toby felt like crowing in   
exultation.   
Payback's a bitch, motherfuckers!  
Behind him, he could sense his father looming. Creed liked to loom. He was good at it. It seemed to be working –   
people shrank back from rememberthatmutantboy? Thatmustbehisfather…Sabretooth. Obviously they hadn't made   
the connection between Toby and Tiger, striker leader of the X-Men yet, but once they did… Toby was surprised to   
find himself enjoying this, simply riding on the undercurrent of apprehension.  
Creed tilted his head, forgetting to loom as he tested the air. "That fuckin' whorebag's not here yet," he said quietly.  
Gabby.  
Toby stiffened. "I can face her."  
"Toby?" Penance asked slowly. "Is this…?"  
Toby nodded and exhaled. "She doesn't mean anything to me," he reminded his father. "She's symbolic of all the   
years I wasted on her, and that's it."  
Creed looked unconvinced. Penance's beautiful face was darkening. Then, "Toby? Toby Creed?"  
It was a woman with silky black hair, quite obviously pregnant. At first Toby didn't recognize her, then, "Vanessa?   
Vanessa Schaeffer?"  
Vanessa nodded. "It's me, though you'd hardly know it, hmm?"  
Toby was flabbergasted. Vanessa had been the perfectly groomed femme fatale of the school, one of the cornerstones   
of the Group. She had never, ever stooped to speak to Toby using anything but a harsh tone. "Well, this is a pleasant   
surprise…" he said weakly.  
She smiled, a radiant smile at odds to her superior, aloof expressions at school. "I'll bet it is, for you. But I said to   
myself, 'Ness, if Toby comes to the reunion, you get up your courage and you go and speak to him' – apologize, I   
mean," she added. One of her hands crept around her swollen belly.   
Toby blinked. "Oh, that's okay," he said, too stunned to think of anything more gracious. "Can I ask what brought   
about the change of heart?"  
Vanessa's eyes twinkled wickedly. "My future husband and the father of my child," she said impishly. "I'm   
marrying a mutant – his name's Hector Rendoza. I think you've had dealings with him?"  
Beside him, he sensed rather than heard Penance's jaw drop.   
Toby wracked his memory. "Didn't he work with Phoenix?" he asked Yvette.  
Vanessa looked pleased. "That's right. You should see his control over his visibility now! God, talking to you is   
putting a crick in my neck. Who'd have thought you'd grow so tall?" She pressed her hands against the back of her   
neck. "Mind if I sit down?"  
Toby sat down on one of the bay window seats in answer. Penance raised her eyebrow as Vanessa eased herself   
beside him, and she stalked over to plop decidedly into his lap. Creed covered his grin with a clawed hand.  
Toby smiled at Vanessa. "This is… er, Yvette. She's my partner."  
"Charmed," said Penance. Her accent seemed even more exotic before this all-American creature.   
Vanessa smiled politely at Yvette. "Ditto."   
Toby was astonished. He remembered Vanessa as being coldly stuck-up. And here she was warm and friendly and   
natural. It made him feel a little less conspicuous knowing that there was another person here who didn't hate him for   
his part in their past. "Who's the guy in the tux?" she asked after a comfortable pause, in which Penance and Vanessa   
weighed each other up, sending the usual I'm-not-after-your-man, and you'd-better-not-be-after-my-man signals.   
"That's my dad," said Toby, relaxing a little. "Don't worry, he has eaten."  
Vanessa shrugged. "If he was going to kill someone, he'd have done it before now. And I'm afraid I wouldn't be an   
easy meal."  
Penance nodded approvingly.  
"What've you been up to?" Toby asked.  
"Well, I did my degree, and became bored beyond belief." She laughed. "I was stuck in a stupid nine-to-five job,   
living in a rented apartment with a cat. I had trendy friends, a beautiful, brainless boyfriend, membership at the local   
gym and a small Japanese car. Boring. And so I decided just like that one day to pick everything up and travel." She   
smoothed her hands down her knees, along the dark blue material of her dress. "When I got to Boston, I stopped for   
some reason. And I started working with the street people, kind of by accident. It made me realize what an   
insufferably middle class idiot I was, with my aspirations of grandeur and my daily make-up routine. And then I met   
Hector, on the street. He thought I was homeless too, rather than a worker, and he invited me to share his blankets.   
He became my favourite pretty quickly." Her face flushed pink. "And then he asked me to marry him, and I said yes.   
And it's history from there."  
Toby marveled at the change in her. "I'm glad that you're so happy."  
"Likewise. Hey, congrats on the whole X-Men strike leader thing! I never knew that's who you lived with."  
"You weren't supposed to know," Toby said, amused. "But it makes little difference now."  
"Hector hero-worships you lot, you know." She laughed softly. "I tell him he needn't bother – I went to school with   
one, and he seemed pretty normal, most of the time."  
"Except when I was getting poisoned by Lightner or going berserk in the football field?" Toby asked dryly, and   
Vanessa snickered.  
"I can't ruin the surprise for you… but you're going to fall over in shock when you see Lightner." She stood   
regretfully. "Well, I better go talk to Jessie Goldsmith. Another apology," she said in explanation to his puzzled look.   
"And you know, thanks for forgiving me."  
Toby grinned – eight long interlocking fangs glinting in the light. "No problem. It's worth it just to see you became a   
better person."  
"I did that," she said cheerfully. "I'll talk to you later?"  
"Sure."  
  
Birdy watched the young pregnant woman walk away slowly. The anxious tension humming in most of the minds   
here was enough to put her in a kind of telepathic preoccupation, and so she hovered around the finger food, trying to   
banish that insistent hum from her mind's ear.   
Until a vortex of distress so pronounced entered her field, centered around a single person. Birdy let out a hiss, her   
hands bracing herself as the shock affected even her control over her body. Victor was immediately by her side, a   
rumble beginning in the back of his throat. "Birdy?"  
Birdy straightened, and tucked the wisps of silver-blond hair behind her ears. "I'm fine, Vic," she said in a tense   
voice, "but you're freaking out the rest of the guests."  
Creed held her eyes. "I don't care."  
"Didn't think you did, but Toby does. That should matter to you."  
Creed's face drew closed, before he let out a short, sharp exhalation. "I ain't no match fer you, am I? Ah well.   
C'mon, we'll find the bar, get some alcohol in ya."  
Birdy wanted to protest – alcohol would just erode her concentration, and chip away at her shields, but then again,   
maybe half a glass of a nice Chardonnay would relax her. God knows the ingrained enmities in this room were   
playing hell with her nerves.  
She was steered firmly towards the bar, and seated down with large, clawed, solicitous hands. Victor ordered, and   
placed what smelled like a Semillon in her hands, before striding his long-legged way toward his son. She was   
vaguely curious about whom that spike of concentrated anger and torment was coming from – who could be feeling   
so strongly about a simple high school reunion? But then, all she'd heard of this school from Toby suggested that the   
attendants weren't the most socially stable of people. It could have been anyone, really.  
Glancing around, she noted Vanessa talking earnestly to a petite dark-haired woman, an apologetic expression on her   
lovely face. There was a beefy young man sitting on the other side of the bar, chatting with another man with flaming   
red hair. And then –   
"Vodka and orange, thanks." A short, stocky man with thin black hair pushed past her and leaned his elbows on the   
bar-top. His face was drawn and sour, and his eyes were small and hard. She just saved the wine from spilling over   
her expensive dress, and glowered at him as he knocked back half the glass he was handed.  
"Do you mind?" Birdy snapped in her low, drawling way.  
The young man turned, sneer at the ready. It quickly fell to the floor when he beheld her – silver-blond hair sweeping   
away from her face, slightly weathered face with luminous blue eyes, angular slim body encased in silver-blue satin.   
Birdy may have been over forty-five years old, but she had received the full benefit of what was familiarly known as   
the 'mutant clause' – the ability to remain quite youthful for an astonishing amount of an already lengthened life   
span. Magneto and Cable were prime examples.   
"Sorry, uh…" he stammered. His eyes skittered across her cleavage.  
"Birdy." She bared her teeth in what may have passed as a smile. Even without her telepathy, she knew what this   
greasy little bastard was thinking.  
He leered. "That's a lovely name…"  
"It isn't a name."  
He floundered, before that glint returned to the dark eyes. "I'm Luke Lightner, heir to the SupraCorps Oil Foundation   
and Refineries," he said with a little inflection that told her he had used the line before, and it hadn't failed him.  
"I'm terribly happy for you," she said dryly.  
He shut his mouth, taken aback, before opening it again. Birdy braced herself. "Are you here with family? A sibling,   
perhaps?"  
She smiled to herself. I must remember to repeat this to Vic. "Family, yes. I've heard this was a very eclectic and   
miserable year to graduate with. Is that true?"  
"Christ yes," he said fervently. "They let any old person in the year I graduated. We had some real freaks – and   
worse, they were treated better than their social and genetic betters."  
He missed the flash of anger in Birdy's lovely blue eyes.  
"There was this one student – his name was Toby Creed. Rabid mutant freak. He scarred me for life, I swear."  
"Really."  
"Oh, you've heard of him?"  
Birdy smiled. Oh yes, Vic would hear of this conversation. "He's my son."  
Luke gaped at her, before turning on his heel and stalking away. Birdy's laughter followed him mockingly.  
  
He reeled out through the ornate doors, his breath coming in raw, uneven, agonizing hitches. He was here. That   
monster had brought his father. Thin knobbed hands ran through limp, greasy black hair, haunted eyes gazed   
vacantly into an obsession. He was here. Here.   
Lucinda would never rest, would never leave him alone…   
And to think he had thought himself safe. Through five nervous years. No, no longer… never again, not since the   
mind-witch rearranged his thoughts to make him understand. He was back, and he had brought his father in order to   
torment him, bring back the echoes of fading screams and flimsy, shallow beliefs…  
  
The sleek black car pulled up. A sleek black stiletto slid out behind a sleek black door. A sleek black woman   
followed the sleek black heel, clad in a sleek black dress. Sleek black sunglasses adorned her sleek black face, her   
sleek black hair pulled back – sleekly. She pulled off the glasses with an elegant movement, waved imperiously to   
the driver, and stalked up the stairs of the Town Hall.  
Eyes on the street narrowed, then widened in recognition. Whispers followed her. She ignored them, as she ignored   
the wet, hot glances at her almost painfully uplifted cleavage and her sleek black legs. The door opened for her,   
naturally, and she stood at the top of the stairs, looking on with satisfaction as people stopped talking to stare up at   
her. She didn't command much respect these days, and the little celebrity awe she engendered was a shallow and   
fake thing. But every drop sustained her in some small, infinitesimal way.   
Her breakup with Toby had been extremely public, and although it had been four years ago, it was still ruining her   
career. People didn't remember the modeling she'd done, or the talk shows, or the guest appearances on popular   
sitcoms, or the one or two failed movies – they remembered her as 'that bitch who used to date Toby Creed… you   
know, the X-Man.'  
No-one had any trouble remembering his name.   
Everything had fallen through, after a few short months of dazzling, dizzying successes. She'd had stardom for such   
a very short time, finally stepping out from behind the shadow of her boyfriend to claim the spotlight. He'd been the   
center of the media's attention until she'd gone to the press –then it was hers. And he had destroyed it in that World   
Spotlight interview, destroyed all her hopes and ambitions by parading her successor – that red-skinned whore –   
before her on national television. And the public forgot about Gabrielle Marshall. She was commonly considered as   
carelessly cruel and self-serving now, whereas before she had been the jilted one. Now they fell over themselves   
sympathizing with Toby, congratulating him on his strength of character in defeating 'all his demons.' Once again,   
he stole the attention that should have been hers.   
She was also considered as one of his 'demons.'  
She liked to think of herself as philosophical about it. Conceit, maybe. In truth, she found herself blaming him for   
most of her misfortunes – from her media neglect to her horrific luck in love to her rapidly-dwindling bank balance.   
As she regally descended the stairs, she heard a purling basso rumble, felt it in the balls of her feet. She ignored it.   
She'd win back her public tonight.  
Sabretooth didn't mask his growl as she pranced down the stairs. He knew what this woman had put his son through,   
through her attention-seeking ways and over-developed sense of vengeance. And though so many seemed surprised   
at it, his paternal instinct was almost as developed as his other instincts. She showed no outward sign of discomfort   
or agitation as the growl deepened into the lower bass register. Oh, she was good, he'd give her that. He'd known   
that from the first time he met her. But you couldn't fool his nose. She was nervous.   
As he watched, she fished in her ridiculous designer bag and took out a mobile phone. He let his growl peter out, and   
sidled back towards the stage, where Toby and Penance sat talking. Give it time. No need to incite a confrontation   
now. Let the time and place be his choice.   
Or… he could give her to Penance.  
Yeah, that could be even better…   
  
"Hello, Daily Bugle? This is Gabrielle Marshall. Yes, you heard. I have need of a first rate photographer… yes,   
believe me it's breaking news. Do the words, 'Tiger', 'Sabretooth', 'conspiracy' and 'aiding and abetting' mean zip   
to you?"  
  
"Check it out."  
"Hmm?"  
"It's Miss More-Famous-Than-Thou Marshall. Gah! She's skinnier than Ally McBeal."  
"You're being bitchy, Tom."  
"I'm a comedian. I'm s'posed to be bitchy."  
Joe Waldi, star shooter for the New York Knicks, knocked back his rum and coke and squinted at the elegant figure   
on the stairs. "Yeah, but that's funny bitchy, not shitty, jealous bitchy."  
"Am I jealous? Do you see me being jealous?" Tom Sheppard scowled indignantly, a lock of his flaming red hair   
falling into his face. "Me, jealous of that second-hand celebrity?"  
"Bitch, snivel, whinge, moan, gripe, whine, bitch."  
"Bastard. I am not."  
"Bitchy little shit. You are too. She's more famous than you are."  
"Joe," said Tom pointedly, "I work the club circuit. I like the club circuit. I can get drunk on stage on the club circuit   
– and I can swear my pointed little head off. She can keep her women's magazines and facelifts. Me, I got my free   
rounds and my cult following."  
"But you'd earn more money if you were famous."  
"Let me put it this way – how much do you think Gabs is earning right now?"  
"Oh yeah."  
Tom pushed his hair out of his face and leaned his bony elbows on the bar-top. "Besides, I'm never gonna sell out   
my audience. I'm gonna follow in the proud footsteps of Greg Proops, Rich Hall…"  
"And spend all your time in Australia or Edinburgh?" said Joe skeptically.  
"Mangy bastard."  
"Lazy bitch. At least I have a career."  
"Bouncing a ball around?"  
"Tom, I'm in the NBA, for fuck's sake."  
"Okay, okay, all right. Have you seen Andy yet?"  
"He's engaged to Jessie now, you know."  
"Yeah, yeah. Is he here?"  
"He hasn't arrived."  
"How do you know? You've been sitting at this bar since you arrived."  
"So've you. And I've got a better view of the door."  
Tom groused for two seconds, before asking, "Well, how about Suz, then? Or Toby?"  
"Tobes is here. He's pretty hard to miss these days."  
Tom's eyes boggled. He'd been receiving letters from Toby ever since their graduation – but not once had the best   
friends seen each other since Tom's eighteenth birthday. "He's here? I didn't see him!"  
"I was wondering when you'd notice," said Joe slyly. Tom's face went as ruddy as his hair.  
"You deliberately didn't say anything," he accused.  
"Moi?" Joe batted his eyes. "C'mon. He's over near the stage – he came in with two women and another guy just as   
big as he is."  
Joe paused from getting down from his barstool. "Big guy? Blond hair? Sideburns?"  
"Yup. Nice suit. Looked a lot like… oh."  
"Man, you're quick."  
"Only on the court." Joe ran a hand through his nondescript hair. "Shit."  
"Yeah."  
"But… we don't have to be shitscared… do we? We never did anything."  
"We're Toby's friends," said Tom, and his tone was so confident that Joe straightened unconsciously. "I been in   
touch. Sabretooth won't hurt us."  
"Are you sure about that? Because I don't know if I'll get the chance to say 'I told you so'."  
"Chickenshit. C'mon!"  
The two young men pushed their way through the crowd towards the stage, Tom's wiry frame slipping through the   
people like soap. Joe just scowled, and slogged away behind him. As they approached, they noted that one of the   
huge blond men raised his head, his eyes speculative, before he broke out into a beaming grin.  
"Tom? Joe!"  
Joe rocked back on his heels. "Toby?"  
Tom had already run forward to indulge himself in a show of manly back-patting. Toby raised an eyebrow, before   
scooping his best friend into a hug. "Fuck, it's good to see you. How's life in 'Frisco?"   
"Feh. Decadent, ridiculous, sunny, and ooooh so disgusting. I love it." Tom gave the broad back another pat, before   
squinting up at his friend. "So how tall are you now?"  
"Tall enough not to fit the school uniforms anymore," Toby retorted. "How's things, Joe? Heard you got into the   
Knicks!"  
"Yeah. S' good fun." Joe eyed the other blond figure nervously. "We kicked Washington's butt last game."  
"I know. My bet was on you. You should have seen Bobby's face when he lost." Toby's face seemed about to split in   
two. "My god, I can't believe you guys are here! What's been going on?" He sat back down, and reached for the   
glass against the ledge. Joe blinked as an extraordinarily beautiful red-skinned woman latched onto his side. Lucky,   
lucky smarmy prick bastard asshole egad! Female… bloody fucking GORGEOUS… too close… can't breathe…!  
Joe had never had much luck in love. The shallow women he dated soon became disillusioned with his simplicity   
and openness, preferring someone who played their little games. The intelligent women he dated wanted someone   
who would challenge them intellectually. Joe Waldi, an honest, simple, straightforward kind of man, was singularly   
equipped to do neither. He wasn't stupid, though he wasn't very bright. He just didn't know how to conceal his true   
feelings – being far too genuine and honorable.   
Therefore, when he first beheld Penance, he didn't know how to hide the fact that he had fallen completely and   
irrevocably in dizzying, worshipful lust.   
Tom was giving him a strange look. "Well, you heard that Susie and I broke up," he said in a matter of fact tone.  
"Yeah," said Toby regretfully. "Man, I'm so sorry."  
Tom gave a half-shrug. "I'm okay. We were just too dissimilar. Erm, I had a relationship with a completely strange   
woman from one of the clubs I work at – she's a bartender. Get your mind outta the gutter." He scowled at Toby,   
who was clearing his throat innocently. "Anyway, she dumped me to date her Huskie. And she paid more attention to   
her bassoon than me. I think she mated with it more often too."  
Toby snorted. Tom grinned wryly. "I think I was looking to find someone as not-Susie as possible."  
"A manic bassoon-shagging, Huskie-dating bartender?"  
"With a penchant for lederhosen."  
This time the blond man behind Toby, the red-skinned woman, Toby and Joe all joined in the laughter. "You use that   
in your show?" asked Joe.  
"Sometimes. When I'm not working her club."  
"Or when she's not working her club?" said Toby slyly.  
"That too. You should hear the applause those nights. Most people, I find, would rather a night out without the mad   
bitch with the short overalls and the habit of tasting everything. Honestly, I once saw her lick the men's floor."  
Toby winced. "Talented with her tongue?" said Penance wickedly (Joe practically drooled on his shoes).  
"Why do you think I was with her?" Tom countered.  
  
Gabrielle placed her small, designer bag on the bar-top and let her legs cross enticingly, savouring the glances her   
way. "Dry martini, thanks," she ordered.  
"Gabrielle Marshall?"   
Astonishing. Someone remembered her name. "That would be me," she purred, not turning around.  
"You look… good."  
That was not a voice she remembered kindly. Her suspicions were proven right when the blocky figure sidled next to   
her, dark eyes lingering on her breasts, tongue nervously wetting the fleshy lips.   
"How've you been?" asked Luke Lightner.  
  
Creed eyed the redheaded young man approvingly. This was a real friend, the like he had never known. The closest   
comparison he had was the runt, and wasn't that reassuring, he groused to himself. The taller, stupider one obviously   
had a major jones for Yvette, but he wasn't so stupid as to make a move on her. He nodded to himself and started to   
sidle off towards the bar and Birdy.  
"Dad?"  
"Goin' t' see yer mother," he grunted. The redheaded kid's eyebrows shot up, and he looked accusingly at Toby,   
whose ears went red. Creed chuckled. "You didn't tell 'em."  
Toby ran a couple of claws through his hair. "I…"  
"You complete and utter bastard! Okay, spill!" Tom ordered, crossing his wiry arms, and sticking out his jaw in a   
pugnacious manner.   
Toby sighed. "Okay, all right, fine. But first, let me introduce my father, Victor. Dad, this is Tom and Joe - like you   
hadn't heard every word."  
"Old habits, tiger." He nodded to the two, who were looking poleaxed. Then the taller one straightened   
unconsciously, and smiled.   
"Nice to meet you."  
Creed was taken aback. The looming, for once in his life, had failed to intimidate. This kid was probably too stupid   
to be scared… then the redhead grinned, making him look like a seventeen-year-old. "Next time you beat up Toby,   
can I watch?" he asked irrepressibly.   
"Tom!"  
Creed began to chuckle. "You get front row seats, ginger. Nice friends, tiger."  
"You rated a nickname. Even I don't get one of those," said Penance archly. "He must really like you."  
"And 'frail' ain't a nickname?" Creed grinned at her, and she curtsied mockingly. "Birdy's over at the bar – I'm   
gonna go check on her. She had some sorta psionic overload."  
"Is she okay?" Toby took a step forward. Creed waved a hand in dismissal – two pairs of eyes followed it   
involuntarily.  
"She'll be fine. Tell Laurel an' Hardy here about her."  
"Laurel and Hardy?" protested Tom. "But I always wanted to be Dean Martin…"  
Creed snorted as he turned away. "Comedians."  
"I got a compliment from the almighty Sabretooth. I think I'll blush," Tom countered. Toby covered his smile with   
his hand, and Penance was making strangled noises.  
Creed shook his head as he made his way back through the milling crowd – which mainly opened for him. Those  
people who didn't see him coming – an extreme minority – yelped and scurried out of his immediate reach. Toby's   
two friends seemed an alright pair, though the redhead was a smartarse and the ball player was braver than he was   
smart. He could see Birdy sitting beside the bar, a slight line marring the smooth skin between her brows. That meant   
she was concentrating on something with her telepathy. Those lovely eyes lifted to him as she sensed his approach,   
and the tension went out of her to some extent. She never brought it up, and he never mentioned it, but they needed   
each other a great deal. Each kept the other sane.  
"You okay, darlin'?" Victor asked in a low voice. She closed her eyes and let out a soft hitching breath.  
"Not really."  
"What's the matter?"  
"I'm still receiving echoes of that concentration of distress. I think I've picked up on who it's coming from, but it's   
giving me a headache."  
"Who? Gimme a name, an' I'll go give them a headache."  
"It's only my impression, mind. I'm no Phoenix when it comes to telepathy."  
"Give us yer best shot."  
"Edward Thompkin? Thompson?"  
Another growl began to build deep in Creed's throat. "Thompson."  
  
Blast. Late again. The party starts without me once more. And who was the genius who decided that stairs were the   
optimum for the entrance to this hall? Damnation. I do not find them as easy as once I did. I find most of my vigour   
is fading, and soon I will be as old as my body. A very depressing thought. Still, I press myself to reach that not-  
insurmountable challenge. I have been pushing myself my whole life, and it would be a damnable shame to stop   
now.  
People mill aimlessly and in no particular fashion before me as I conquer my mountain, and I stare for a second   
down at them. So many children, so many faces I have taught. There is a never-ending stream of minds to open and   
corrupt, to prod and poke and awaken and stimulate and infiltrate. These faces have mostly forgotten what I   
imparted. These faces have moved on from the sweltering classroom and the dusty chalkboard and the strange, jolly   
old Pom of an English teacher. Some of them remember my name. Fewer remember my classes, or the little gems I   
entrusted to them. I hope I have helped in some infinitesimal manner to ease their passage into adulthood, to impress   
upon those flighty young brains the great value a little learning can have, and the great gift an enquiring mind can be.   
I remember where I am for a moment, and start down the stairs. There are faces I recognize here, one in particular. A   
mind of no extraordinary capabilities, but the strength of his application was something wondrous to behold. I have   
missed him, missed broadening his youthful horizons and guiding him along his painful path. He has changed, I   
know, as have I. But neither of us is so different that we cannot recapture that sense of complete bookish   
exultation…  
People often misunderstand or underestimate the great joy of learning. It is not the dry, dusty process they believe it   
to be. It is a sparkling brilliance that one can conquer… one stair at a time.  
He has caught my eye, now, and he is smiling. I once told him never to restrain a smile in order to conceal his fangs.   
He is what he is, and he should make no apology for the fact. Ah, I perceive that my appearance shocks him. Indeed,   
it shocks me -- a little. My hair is thinning, my hands are weak, my voice is no longer quite so rich and I lack the   
breath to whistle blithely as I once did… I see he looks well. Unlikely that he should look unwell, I suppose.  
Of all my students over so many years, he was one I could mold and shape – one who needed my advice and brisk   
common sense more than any I have known. And he would use my advice through his years, so that it would never   
die. I knew that the moment I laid eyes on him, that very first day, when he sat up the back and stammered over   
Othello. In him, I could continue to teach long after I am gone.   
His smile is the most welcome thing I have ever been privileged to witness.  
"My most sincere and profuse apologies, my Lord," he says. Ah, there is a prime example of my tutelage – the magic   
way in which the English tongue may be expressed. He has not forgotten! I knew he would not. My eyes grow   
glassy, and I blink furiously to clear them.  
"Whatever for, my Lord?" Is my voice hoarse? Tsk, this is unacceptable, Henry. Pull yourself together, man.  
"My lax and callous neglect of our most precious and special correspondence," he answers, and his voices are also   
thick.  
I think that had I ever married any human creature rather than my language, I would have wanted such a man as this   
to be my son. And indeed, he is my legacy, in more ways than he is his father's. That is, I suppose, something of   
which to be proud. His eyes are shining quite brightly. We still stand a meter or so apart, and I find I resent this   
distance that Time, that fickle mistress, has impressed upon us.   
He is different. Experience, battle, betrayal and leadership have wreaked havoc upon those eyes I knew – the eyes   
that widened in shock and wonder at every scholarly discovery, every academic endeavour. He has moved beyond   
my teachings, my word play and mind-puzzles, my tricks with the language and with the human psyche. He does not   
need me any more.  
My throat is uncomfortably tight. "I find I much prefer the genuine article to a piece of paper, my Lord," I manage,   
and the bright blue eyes shift again – ah, familiarity. No, he has not changed that much, I see now. His veneer of   
adulthood and independence is a hollow thing – he has earned it, but not claimed it. He has needed me often – all   
alone adrift in the midst of strangers, rediscovering who he has become. In many ways he is still the boy of fifteen,   
only about five feet tall then, sitting in my dusty old office with a new problem to evade, resolve or eliminate. That   
makes me feel far, far better, and I cross that impasse easily, and my arms move of their own accord.  
He was almost this tall when I last hugged him – at his graduation. He is shaking slightly, as am I. We both owe each   
other far too much to conceal it. He owes me his sanity and his future; I owe him all my hopes and dreams become   
reality.  
I am still his teacher, and he is my student. That is something that Time cannot steal from us.  
  
She crossed her legs and sipped her martini slowly, eyes locked on the figure beside her. Luke Lightner had lived up   
to the promise he had shown as a boy – he was blocky and solid, with a heavy-jowled face. He would run to fat in his   
middle age, she could tell, but at that point, he had something. A certain greasy, swarthy, sleazy something, she   
conceded, but it was there.  
"So, Gabrielle," he rolled her name over his tongue. She cringed. "Whatever have you been doing?"  
He knew. Everyone knew. Two failed movies, guest appearances on sitcoms (no-one noticed, really), one scandalous   
internationally-broadcast humiliation, and several bouts under the surgeon's knife: breast implants, tummy tuck,   
collagen lips and liposuction. He was really asking to make polite conversation, studiously ignoring the way they had   
fought like cats in a bag whilst at school.  
"Not much since my last movie," she answered obliquely. That would be considered safe. "You?"  
"Trying desperately to get over school and move on with my life," he answered wryly. His thick lip twisted. "Didn't   
work."  
"Oh?"  
"I don't mean to be rude-"  
Anyone who begins a sentence with 'I don't mean to be rude' is trying to be as insulting and degrading as possible,   
she thought disparagingly.   
"-but your former… aha, boyfriend… left a lot of scars on me, and not just from that …thing… on the football field   
that day…" he rattled on. She felt her face darken.  
"I don't see where you get off implying that either he or I had any fault in that matter," she said coldly. He gave her a   
quick glance, threw back his drink, and then exhaled sharply.  
"Yeah. Sure. You had nothing to do with it. He was always using you to hide behind anyway… even used you as an   
excuse not to attack anyone, remember? He always found some excuse to get away with his behaviour."  
Gabby couldn't find it in her to contradict him. She remained silent. Her conscience screamed that that wasn't the   
case, that he hadn't any control over himself in those early years, that Lightner had hurt him and goaded him and   
poisoned him…  
He took no note of her silence, and continued on. "…And you try an' get over it, y'know? But it isn't easy, and I still   
get nightmares. He screwed up most of my life…"  
It was a different matter in her case, she told herself firmly. Toby really was responsible for the tragedy that was her   
life. Lightner had misunderstood matters, but she had perfectly legitimate reason to blame him.  
Didn't she?  
Dammit, she was no Luke Lightner! Fuck this! Fuck all of them!  
Interrupting his morose rambling, she said, "Have you done anything productive since High School?"  
He was taken aback. "I…"  
She didn't wait for an answer. Slamming the cocktail glass down so hard the stem broke, she stalked away from the   
bar. The press should be arriving any minute. Her plan was in effect. No last minute indecision. Toby and his whore   
would pay for ruining her career, and she would win back her popularity in a flash, the flash of a camera. Fumbling   
with her designer bag, she strode purposely toward the Ladies toilets to reapply her face. She had to look her best for   
her public.  
Birdy sipped her drink, and complacently watched her go.   
Definitely give her ta Yvette.  
  
Edgar Thompson half-fled down the hall.  
The memory of Lucy mocked him, her pretty eyes laughing at his cowardice. "My killer is out there, Eddie… can't   
you face him, even for me?" Those great green eyes bored into him from so many years ago. They had always been   
laughing and merry, chestnut hair blowing into them and catching on soft eyelashes. Now the laughter was hurtful…  
He was a coward, he knew it. He couldn't face that creature… he couldn't stand being in the same damned building   
as it. Those claws had rent his Lucy to an unrecognizable bloody rag – even he couldn't find a feature in the wet, hot,   
sticky smear that he recognized. It was as if he had been looking quite detached at the contents of a butcher's shop.   
It had been a closed coffin.   
Edgar Thompson was almost painfully average – but even the most mediocre thinker could have deduced his   
reasoning. He had taken his fury and despair out upon the weak, small, unhappy Toby – who had been, after all, a   
little Victor Creed, an easily bullied one furthermore. All Thompson's frustrated, vitriolic, anguished bile was poured   
into the boy, mercilessly crushing his self-esteem and crippling him emotionally. Toby had fought back, and   
regained his identity eventually, and Thompson's indirect vengeance had become thwarted. But now he had the   
chance to confront the real Victor Creed, not his youthful reflection. And he couldn't do it, just couldn't muster the   
courage.  
The revelation was a startling eye-opener, and made him view his motives in a harsher light. As long as his object of   
hatred had been beneath him in terms of power and respect, Thompson had been as ruthless and single-minded as a   
buzzsaw – and about as gentle. But Sabretooth was definitely more powerful than an aging math teacher, and those   
claws, that bulk, those fangs, those cat-yellow eyes; they certainly commanded more respect.  
To that same effect, Toby outstripped him now, as well.  
I'm so sorry, my Lucinda…  
That telepath hadn't done him a favour when she rearranged his memories. He could still remember his original   
impressions, but they were superimposed with the emotions and perceptions of the Creed boy. He therefore to some   
extent understood the primal force that was the father – and hated it. He didn't want to understand. It was so much   
easier when he could just blame him and be content in his implacable hatred, so much easier to label him as an   
inhuman monster rather than a man in thrall to a power stronger than his will.   
And so it comes to this, Edgar?  
If it has to. I'm afraid of him, and I can't believe in his guilt as I once did. I don't think I could face him, even for   
you, Lucy…  
"Where you goin', mister?"  
Thompson froze. The voice was low and rough, as though tempered by years of shouting over a loud noise. He   
hadn't heard anyone behind him, and yet, there was someone talking to him other than himself…  
Idiot.   
"I…I, er…" he began.  
"Seems ta me, yer runnin' away," said the monster complacently. There was a warm red glowing point moving in its   
hand, and the smell of tobacco made Thompson's eyes water. "You scared o' me, Ed? I can call ya Ed, can't I?"  
If you can still be walking free after killing more people than the population of New Zealand, you could call anyone   
just about anything. "Um." Well, wasn't that eloquent.  
"I said, you scared o' me, Ed?" The last was a snarl. There was sweat trickling down Thompson's spine, tickling the   
hot-cold skin.  
Answer him! Do you want to join Lucy? "Y…ye-yes," he managed.   
A smile in return, sparking a memory of the Creed boy in his late adolescence. He had been almost as tall as his beast   
father, and the smile was the same – only the father's was so much more cynical, so much more dangerous. And so   
much less stable. And those yellow eyes…! "Good onya, Ed. My son tells me I did you some hurt sometime in the   
past. You wanna bring it out into the open?"  
Well, you can't ever call it stupid again, can you? Thompson drew himself up to his full height. He was not a short   
man, but it was a ludicrous move before Victor Creed, and he knew it, sagging almost immediately. "You killed my   
wife," he said in a dull voice. Where were his ringing declamations? His crushing denunciations? Where were they   
now?  
The blond head tipped, a line of smoke tracing the air. "Could be. I kill a lot o' people."  
Present tense. Not past. Thompson noted the distinction and took the implicit threat to heart. "This was after you   
escaped the service of the US government. We lived in the lower East side in an apartment block. You came   
rampaging through, killing everyone and everything that moved. Lucy was in your way."  
Creed said nothing. Let Thompson continue.  
"They had to separate her remains from someone else's, and perform a blood test on her to identify her, she had been   
that disfigured. She was the only reason I had to try for something better, and you killed her, took her away. I can't   
remember her face anymore, or what she felt like in my arms. I can remember her eyes, her laugh, and a pile of   
steaming entrails on the sidewalk."  
He was shaking, he realized. And he was standing up for his Lucy.   
Perhaps he wasn't a coward.  
Creed's eyes were narrowed. "Seems ta me there's a bit more to the story. Seems you took it out on my son, who had   
fuck all ta do with me at that point. Now, I love my son – don't noise that about – an' I take that kinda thing   
personal."  
Oh, yes, he was a coward, most definitely.   
"W-well, I t-take y-you killing my wife b-bloody p-personal!"  
Did he really say that?  
The creature looked taken aback, like it really hadn't expected that. There was a very, very long pause.   
"So we both got a beef with the other, seems," it commented eventually.  
Thompson stood his ground. "Seems so. I want restitution."  
Amused look. "Live with disappointment. I want an apology."  
"Likewise."  
"Or blood."  
Ooooh, gods. "There is n-no doubt in m-my mind that you c-c-could have m-mine," he said, trying to stop his voice   
from stuttering. "B-but I'm afraid you w-would be d-doing m-me a favour."  
Creed looked disgusted. "An' fer a moment, I thought you were a man."  
"I h-have absolutely n-nothing to lose. W-what will you g-gain?"   
"Apart from lunch?" Creed grinned again at the blanch which crossed Thompson's sallow, aquiline face. "You say   
you got nothin' ta lose, an' yet you won't apologize ta my son? Seems ta me you got some pride you could afford ta   
get rid of, bub."  
Note to self: Never, ever accuse Sabretooth of idiocy ever again. "True. But are you so b-blasé about m-murder that   
my wife means absolutely nothing to you?"  
A shadow flickered through the golden eyes for a brief moment. "You got no fuckin' idea what's important ta me."  
"I know that in almost four years, you have killed only f-fifty-nine people – pretty pathetic compared to the previous   
annual total of f-four hundred and eighty-two." Thompson savoured the look of surprise that crossed the monster's   
face. "And yes, before you ask, there are certain updates that relatives of your v-victims receive from the Canadian   
Government."  
"Shit."  
Knees, please stop knocking, thank you ever so much… "You know what that suggests to me?"  
Reproachful glare, the cigarette thrown onto the floor. "Toby convinced me not to."  
Thompson tried to stop the sneer. "Was it hard to give up the habit? Did you take it a day at a time, working from   
humans to puppies to rodents to insects? Or did you just perform a little m-maiming for old times sake?"  
"Fuck off. You got no idea what's it's like, livin' at the mercy of yer fuckin' mutation." Creed lunged, and abruptly,   
Thompson was dangling from the huge hands by his shirt collar. "I like killin'. I fuckin' love it. I lived fer it. But   
Toby showed me that I can live fer somethin' else, if I try hard enough. And I'll put this nicely – right now I'm tryin'   
really hard."  
"G-go f-for it. K-kill me. S-start all over a-again." Thompson couldn't restrain the stammer now. "And l-live   
knowing t-that you l-let your s-son d-down."  
There was a stunned silence.  
Creed stared at him.  
Thompson stared back.  
And Creed burst out laughing. He dropped the astonished Thompson and threw his head back, roaring with mirth.   
Thompson gaped at him unmoving, not trusting his mercurial nature nor his violently shaking knees. Creed was   
gasping and chuckling now, leaning his back against the corridor wall as his hilarity left him drained.   
"Maybe.. aha… maybe you are a man instead o' a weasel," he managed after a time.   
"So flattered," said Thompson weakly. Creed wiped his eyes with the heels of his palms, and fixed him with that   
raptor stare.   
"You should be," he said in a completely serious tone. "You know I ain't gonna kill you."  
"And you know I won't apologize."  
"Which is why I got an offer for ya. You apologize ta tiger, an' I..."  
"I just said…"  
"And I'll give ya whatever it is that yer after. Within reason."  
"I don't feel like apologizing, or feeling reasonable," countered Thompson.  
"You bargaining with me? Cos I'll just walk away, an' I'd like to see ya try an' stop me." Creed folded those   
massive arms across his chest. That suit emphasized his shoulders as well… Thompson gulped and shrank back. The   
skin-memory of the hand about his collar prickled a little, and he shuddered involuntarily.  
"Conditions?" he ventured.  
"Two. That you tell me what the fuck you want, an' I witness the apology."  
Thompson thought about what he wanted of this man, more than anything in the world. Surprisingly, he didn't want   
his death. Or even his misery.   
"I want to punch you," he said finally.  
The look of resignation on Creed's face was priceless. "Hell, everyone does. You didn't even have ta fuckin' ask that   
one – that's a given. The price I pay fer bein' a bastard, Birdy calls it."  
"Hard. As many times as I want. Here. Now. In the mouth." Thompson's eyes were alight with the fires of the   
obsessed.  
Creed shrugged. "You tryin' ta shock me, boy?"  
"My price."  
A sigh rising from the barrel-like chest. "Wait a bit – I'll never hear the end o' it if I bleed on my nice duds." He   
unbuttoned his white shirt with surprisingly deft claws and threw it on the floor.  
Looking up at the superbly muscled, brawny and rangy physique of the sociopathic Sabretooth, Thompson began to   
question his own sanity. "You're too tall," was all he said.   
A growl. "I ain't kneelin'. I kneel fer no-one but Birdy."  
Too much information. "Then you're going to have to sit, aren't you?" I have a deathwish, I have a deathwish, I   
KNOW it…  
Creed snarled once more, and crouched, fluid and catlike, onto his haunches. "That better, runt?"  
Thompson smiled beatifically, and his knobbly, shaking fist lashed out like a cracking whip and sent Creed spilling   
onto his back. "Much."  
Creed hurked a bit, and spat off to one side, a line of scarlet streaking down his chin from the corner of his mouth.   
His spit was red, and there was grudging surprise in his expression, although his tone was insulting when he said, "is   
that it?"  
Thompson snarled. Actually snarled, and his thin-fingered fists flew out again to crash solidly against Creed's nose   
and jaw. Something crunched, something else cracked, and Creed didn't conceal his shock this time, spitting out a   
fang. "Fuck! You bwoke my fucking nose again! An' dere goes another fucking toof…"  
"You'll have another within an hour, right?" Thompson retorted.  
"Yeah, but I fucking hate toofaches! S'worse than having yer stomach wall breached…" Creed rolled his eyes and   
clamped one hand against his face. "Fuckin' hell!"  
Thompson stared at him for two seconds, before he too, began laughing.  
  
  
Mom? Is something the matter?  
  
Great. Gabby's gone off the deep end.  
  
Thanks. Oh, and Mom?  
  
Where the hell IS Dad?  
  
  
He checked his watch and fed the parking meter. Hmm, two hours should do it. At least this gig would feed him for a   
while – the 'anonymous' tip being who she was and all. Photographer Peter Parker straightened his formal jacket,   
adjusted the camera around his neck, and whistling, walked jauntily up the stairs into the Town Hall. Women in   
gown-like dresses swanned before him, and the flock of men around the bar made him think of a gaggle of magpies.   
There was a middle-aged man on the stage trying to fix the microphone leads, and a thin old biddy in horrendously   
sensible shoes standing off to one side with her thin lips pressed together. Everything about her read 'Aging   
Unmarried Secretary.' Peter could practically see it flashing in neon around her. Or was that his spider-se…  
A hand reached from the side, and grabbed him. Peter struggled, but whoever held him was obviously stronger than   
him – something of a rare occurrence. He squinted, twisting his head to try and spot his attacker, but all he got was   
the impression of blond hair and a nicely cut pinstripe suit. He was yanked unceremoniously through the crowd to a   
small alcove near the front of the stage, in which a tall, rotund man with Back-To-The-Future white hair, a woman   
wearing silver-blue, and another woman with scarlet skin were seated. Peter began to have a few suspicions at that   
point.  
"Take a seat," said whoever had just released his arm. Lots of whoevers, really – lots of voices. Then it clicked.  
"Tiger?"  
"Bingo. Hi Spidey."  
"Peter. It's been what, four years?" Peter rubbed at his arm, before turning around. And ooh, hadn't the boy changed   
from the (very) angry teen he had known in that rescue op all those years ago? "And how did…"  
"Enhanced senses."  
"Oh yeah. I keep forgetting about them." Peter scratched at his head. "I look pretty ordinary without my mask…"  
Toby smiled, demonstrating how unordinary he looked when he did so. "Yeah, well… Anyway, this is Henry   
Wallace, my English teacher, Birdy, my mother, and Yvette, my partner."  
Peter sat nervously beside the red-skinned woman. "Er, hi."  
"Greetings, my lord."  
"Shut up, I'm in contact with Vic."  
"I need another butterscotch schnapps…"  
Peter raised his eyebrows at Toby, who sat across from him. "Right. Well. Um. Do you want to explain why you   
dragged me over here instead of asking me, or is that old-fashioned now?"  
"You were called here by Gabrielle Marshall, weren't you, Peter?" asked Toby bluntly.  
Peter reddened a little as he remembered that certain juicy gossipy history. "Oh."  
"She's apparently trying to discredit me in the eyes of the media. She thinks that by doing so, she'll get her   
popularity back." Toby leaned back in the chair. "I wouldn't care, usually, but she's going to use my father to do so.   
Once word gets out that I'm on amicable terms with him, the pressure 'll be on me and the X-Men to turn him in.   
And I won't do that."  
Peter straightened in surprise. "I…"  
"A piece of luck that the oh so ambiguous press happens to be someone I know." Toby raised one eyebrow slightly,   
giving his face an expression of elite expectation. "I hope you completely understand my situation here."  
"Why wouldn't you turn him in?" Peter asked after a pause. "Apart from the whole family thing, I mean. They could   
probably get him some help…"  
Birdy hissed under her breath, and Toby's face went blank. Penance shook her head, before tapping Peter's shoulder   
to get his attention. "I know what happened on that retrieval operation all that time ago, Peter," she said in a low   
voice. "You saw Wolverine, Toby and his father after they had been in cages. Do you remember? Have you any idea   
what a cage does to anyone with a mutation like Victor's? They go crazy. Completely. And Victor has been better   
than ever since he's been in touch with Toby. Can you imagine what being locked up, away from his son and his   
partner, being tested and prodded and poked like an animal would do to him? Especially considering his past as an   
experiment." She gauged Peter's flinch. "Ah, I see you didn't know about that."  
He gulped, before turning back to the stony-faced Toby. "Sorry," he said in a half-mumble.   
Toby nodded. "It's okay. Now I know you completely understand my situation."  
Peter unhooked the camera from about his neck, and took out the film. "I'll be snapping the flash, but no photos 'll   
be taken," he explained. "Noise it about that I'm the official photographer from the school for the reunion scrapbook,   
or something like that. Cripes, what'll I tell Jameson? And buy me a drink. It's the least you can do, seeing as I'm a   
dead man."  
Standing, Toby took the film and indicated the bar. "Oh?"  
"MJ's gonna kill me!"  
  
"Cher?"  
No answer. Remy crept further into their darkened room, the bunch of ice-white roses by his side. Although, thief-  
trained as he was, it wouldn't do any good against his fiancé, who could see in terms of heat if he wanted to, and   
could sense liquid from here to the damned Pacific Ocean. Oh well, being caught wasn't the issue here – well,   
actually it was. Remy wanted to be caught, wanted to see that look of burgeoning self-confidence and playful   
smugness on Bobby's face. It gave him a secret thrill that Jean had confessed she found 'adorable' and Cable said he   
found 'coffee-threatening' – whatever that meant in Cable-speak, he didn't presume to hazard a guess. It wasn't so   
long ago that Bobby's repression had kept him miserable, and keeping up his joker façade had taken up every last   
vestige of his will and effort, hiding his deep depression and feelings of inadequacy.  
Remy shook himself out of it, and started forward again into their room. That was a long time ago, LeBeau. Both you   
an' cher 've changed since then.  
Rogue had continued her friendship with Bobby, but became skittish and nervous around Remy. And every time   
Bobby went to do something with his friend, he felt guilty because of Remy. Yes, Rogue had hurt him, he conceded,   
but she was not the only one to blame in terms of that shattered love. And they had been dancing around each other   
since before little Alex was born. Remy had decided to act like an adult, and patch it up, for Bobby's sake.  
Look at you, LeBeau. Y're whipped.  
Rogue had been cooking, as was her norm now. She thought it was Bishop who was rummaging in the cupboard   
behind her. "Bish," she said, her face flushed and preoccupied as she stirred the doughy mixture in the bowl, "you   
wanna pass me the sugah? Should be on the second shelf."  
"Sure t'ing, Rogue," he had answered, casual as you please. She froze, and her head whipped around to stare almost   
accusingly at him. He kept his expression mild. "Whatcha makin'?"  
"Cake," she answered, too stunned to be more eloquent. Remy grinned at her, before solemnly handing her the sugar.  
"Dere you go. What kinda cake?"  
"Carrot cake," she said, holding the sugar stupidly where she had taken it from him.   
"Dere enough for one skinny ole Cajun?"  
Now that was a loaded question. He wasn't asking if there was enough cake for him. He was asking if there was   
enough room in her heart to forgive him his part in the fiasco that had been their relationship.   
There was a pause. Green eyes met red.   
"Shure thang, swamp rat," she said finally.  
"I'll see you roun', den?"  
"Okay. Cake'll be ready in about an hour," she answered, and there was a sparkle in her expression which said she   
understood and was more than fine with it. She'd come to terms with it somehow. Remy had the sneaking suspicion   
he should thank Hank for that.  
Okay. Backtrack. Y're entrenched in memory lane.   
"Cher?" he tried again.   
Nope. He must be in the grounds, or the rec room… or the Danger room. Those were the places he hadn't yet looked   
for his partner. Discarding the roses on the bed, he sat down with a sigh.   
"S'at, Remy?"  
"Merde!" Remy yelped in a most un-suave display of astonishment. "Cher! Y' been in here de whole time?"  
Warm hands found his waist and pulled him towards a sleepy body. "You woke me. I was having a catnap."  
"Sorry, cher."  
"S'okay. What's this…?"  
Remy felt towards the foot of the bed, and touched the stems of the white rose. "Oh. Present for you, cher. Turn on   
de light?"  
"Okay, warn me." Remy crossed the room sure-footedly, and counted before switching the light on. Yellow warmth   
filled the room, illuminating Bobby half-naked to the waist, his hands clamped over his eyes. "Ow."  
"Baby. You want y'r present or not?"  
"Yeah, I want my present, but it won't do me any good if I can't see it, gooberhead," Bobby said indignantly, his   
hands still over his eyes.   
"Gooberhead? You get dat off 'Lex?"  
Bobby opened one eye apologetically. "Actually, he got it off me… Oh!" For he had noticed the dozen long-  
stemmed white roses, one of which had crushed and spread rumpled white petals everywhere. "Oh, Remy!"  
"Happy anniversary, cher," said Remy gently, as Bobby stared in amazement at his flowers.   
"I got flowers!? I never get flowers! That is so a Warren rather than a Bobby thing…" he said dazedly. Remy   
scowled at that.  
"Dey ain't fer Warren, dey f'r you. You like 'em?"  
In answer, Bobby launched himself out of the bed and his lips locked on Remy's. Remy made a sound like 'gack!'   
before he fell over backwards with Bobby sprawled over him. He certainly didn't seem ready to relinquish Remy's   
lips just yet, but then, Remy wasn't really complaining.   
Until he really needed to take a breath, and Bobby seemed to be utterly absorbed in the soft meeting and parting of   
lip and tongue… arrgh! "Cher! Oxygen break!" he mumbled into the (talented, mon dieu) insistent mouth. Bobby   
also gasped as they pulled apart, before setting off to take up right where they left off to be stopped by Remy's   
splayed, long-fingered hand on his chest.  
Arrgh. BarenakedchestBobby. How did I stand to live wit' him all dese years an' NOT pounce him? "Stop, cher. I   
got somet'ing else t' tell you."  
Bobby's eyes didn't show a hint of alarm at those relationship-taboo words. Another indication that he was   
becoming aware of his own self-worth. "Hmm? Better make it quick or you won't get a word in…"  
Tease. "De flowers ain't de lot. Got y' somet'ing else…"  
"I only got you one something, and no flowers!" Bobby exclaimed.   
"Bobby."  
"Sorry… what were you saying?"  
Remy fished in his pockets, and pulled out a little gift-wrapped box. "Dere."  
Struggling a little, Bobby managed to get to his feet. It was a never-ending source of amazement for the naturally   
graceful Remy, how gawky and gorgeously uncoordinated his partner could be – off the ice, of course. He plunked   
himself down on their bed, looking curiously at the little box, before pulling at the ribbon. He was just like a child   
when it came to presents – Remy had never seen a grown man react the way Bobby did at Christmastime.  
"Oooh!" Bobby squealed, interrupting his reverie.  
"You like it, cher?"  
"It matches my ring! Oh, Remy, this rocks beyond belief!" Bobby pulled out the beautiful white-gold fob-watch and   
chain. Etched inside the cover were the words, Forever, Remy. "You sentimental sap!" Bobby laughed, but his eyes   
betrayed the warm'n'fuzzies overtaking him (Bobby called it the 'Remy-Wooble').   
"I know you liked de Stooges, cher, so dis seemed appropriate…" said Remy with a grin. "An' before you ask, no, I   
didn't steal de damn t'ing."  
"I never said!"  
"You thought it."  
"Drat, foiled. Well, your present is outside," said Bobby leaning back against him. "But I put it outside the window   
unless Logan's gone and swiped it…"  
Remy raised an eyebrow before going to look outside the (messy) bay window. And red-on-black eyes widened in   
shock, and he began to make strangling noises. Bobby folded his arms behind his head.  
"And before you ask, yes, a Harley fatboy softail classic does cost a bloody fortune," he said silkily.  
  
"Is this thing on-" The rest of the question, such as it was, was drowned out by the hideous sound of the microphone   
feedback going crazy. Harding winced, and adjusted the stand. "Obviously."  
Miss Tweed, ostensibly helping him set things up, stood back with her hands primly folded and sniffed. Harding had   
the sudden urge to scruff the woman's hair, untie her shoelaces, anything to see her in a state other than snobbish   
disdain. She could help, if she disapproved so much of his methods!  
The mutual dislike between Harding and Tweed had become a school byword. Harding called her 'that miserable old   
bag,' and Miss Tweed referred to him as 'that woefully inadequate man' – or 'that man' for short. She never stooped   
to interfering with his work – she wasn't that stupid – but she certainly made it uncomfortable for him. In return, he   
simply found more work for her to do, and piled as many students into her time as possible. She loathed students.  
Harding straightened, and adjusted his tie before scanning the now-attentive audience. This had been somewhat of a   
problem year, he recalled. The social factions had been so pronounced, you'd think they were castes. And it was the   
first time his school had enrolled an openly mutant student – not that Toby could have pretended otherwise.   
Nowadays there were four mutants (that he knew of) on the roster. Xavier had started a trend with Toby, and broken   
the mould. Salem Center Grammar was known as a tolerant, open-minded school, and parents of mutant children felt   
secure in sending them there to be educated. It had gained them publicity, yes, not all of it good. But there had been   
enough positive press thanks to Toby's sudden, explosive fame (the football team was now known as the Grammar   
Tigers – McIntyre's idea) that the school thrived upon the attention.   
He could see grins and smiles on the upturned faces. As a principal, he'd seen so many years graduate, marked their   
progress in so many reunions. It never ceased to amaze him, how the dual images overlapped. Gabrielle Marshall   
there – that was an incongruous comparison if ever he saw one – the righteous, philanthropic teenager compared to   
the desperate, selfish fashion model. And Giovanni Waldi! Once so reticent and downtrodden because of his   
overbearing single father, he had made a name as one of the finest ball players in the NBA – and certainly the best of   
Italian-American origin (or was that the only one?). Luke Lightner's fall from social leader, mover and shaker to an   
alcoholic lecher, simply waiting for his inheritance and the next shot of vodka. And Toby… ha. There was a contrast;   
that shy, uncontrolled, nervous elf-thing compared to the man he was now…  
On with it, Richard. Stop woolgathering. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. The microphone howled in protest, and   
not a few voices were raised at it.  
"Gah!"  
"Turn it off!"  
"Oh gawd…"  
Harding frowned balefully at Miss Tweed, before continuing. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I say how proud I am of   
all of you. It's an amazing feeling, to know I helped you become who you are now – that I am in part responsible for   
the adult you became. This graduating year was characterized by extreme individuality, and extreme growth." He   
looked significantly over at Toby, who reddened at the communal snicker. "No, not in the literal sense, though it   
certainly applies to one. We, your teachers and mentors watched you grow to claim your individuality, grow to   
distinguish yourselves and grow to establish your independence as new adults. You had your problems, but for the   
most part, you left them behind at the school." There were a few puffed-up chests at that. "And poor old Murphy had   
to deal with them then," Harding added slyly, and there was a mutual chuckle. "I hope that all we taught you has   
been useful in your life, and will continue to be so in the times ahead. We had some good times, didn't we? Then let   
them sustain you. For in truth we were trying to impart to you more than just an education. We were trying to teach   
you how to deal with life's little idiosyncrasies. And no, we weren't trying to use shock tactics." Another titter,   
louder this time. "After all, you learned most of those lessons on your own, hmm? We, just like old Murphy, tried to   
mop up after you, and if possible, provide some much-needed guidance. Or need I really go into some of the more   
embarrassing things which occurred, in front of your esteemed guests no less? What about the time Miss Schaeffer   
was discovered behind the equipment shed with… shall I say it, Vanessa?"  
Vanessa, her face red as a beet, pressed her hands against her face. "Nononooooo!"  
"Or the time Roger Schneider fell during football in the second year, and his shorts came off…"  
Roger groaned, and sank back into a slouch, while his back was pounded by the over-enthusiastic Jim Hefner.  
"Or when a redhead called Thomas Sheppard accidentally mistook his pen for lunch, and stained his skin and teeth   
blue for almost an entire week?"  
Tom scowled as Joe started to choke on his beer. "All right. It isn't that funny."  
"You're going to bitch about this for ages, aren't you?" replied Joe after his coughing fit was over.  
"What about the time a girl called Catherine Cuthridge fell headfirst into a piece of school property in front of a   
visiting basketball team?"  
A giggle ran through the 'former' girls and the boys whooped. Catherine scowled. "It was cheerleader practice, and I   
fell into a garbage bin. I wouldn't have if Jim was strong enough to hold me up!"  
"Possibly a certain music teacher's obsession with a certain mutant and his voices?" said Harding, scanning the   
crowd for more ammunition. He simply couldn't resist the dig, and was rewarded by shout of laughter from the table   
surrounding the X-Man, and half the gathered students.  
"Or the way a girl named Susan Butler was able to take advantage of every single one of the boys without you so   
much as touching her," he grinned, especially when the moans and heartfelt sighs resounded around the room, and all   
the womenfolk cracked up. Harding spread his fingers wide and waved his hand grandly towards the grand staircase.  
"Maybe the manner in which a certain Andrew Zhang fell over his feet every time a certain Jessica Goldsmith was   
mentioned?"  
Andy, just entering at the top of the steps with the aforementioned young lady, now his fiancée, froze as a cheer rose   
from about twenty throats. He blinked.  
"Jesus H. Christ in a g-string and chaps!" he mumbled in bemusement.  
"Well," Tom remarked into the din, "I see his swearing certainly hasn't changed."  
  
Penance wove through the crowd, her empty glass in her hand. She was on a covert mission for schnapps – seek,   
destroy, retrieve. That is, seek the elusive butterscotch nectar, destroy anyone who came between her and her   
intended goal, and retrieve the schnapps for reverent examination and consumption. Schnapps had been the first   
alcoholic beverage she had ever tasted, and it was still her favourite – even more so than apple cider.   
Aha. Target sighted. The makeshift bar, draped in the school colours and surrounded by young adults on barstools,   
loomed ahead of her. Now, insinuate yourself into the enemy's graces, lull him into a false sense of security, she told   
herself, straightening the bustle on the elegant black gown and hoping the laces on her corset were still tied. Then she   
hitched her skirt above one shapely knee (encased in sheer black stocking – red under black made her skin glow   
burgundy, and made Toby very affectionate, she had discovered) and tucked it back into the bustle, before she   
sashayed her best sashay at the melting pile of blubbering testosterone that clustered around the bar.  
"Hello," she purred.   
About four fell onto their faces. Another five just stared at her leg/breasts/face/hair/eyes/body part of preference. One   
stammered, "ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba…" consistently, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy. Two immediately   
offered to buy her a drink. She smiled, and three more offered to buy her a drink.  
Amazing what saying, 'hello,' will get you these days, she thought, leaning over to order her schnapps. The (female)   
caterer/bartender was trying hard not to laugh. Penance winked at her.   
"I suppose you think that makes you beautiful," came an acerbic voice from behind her. Penance saw the bartender's   
eyes crease as she regarded the speaker. Penance sighed.   
"You must be Gabrielle," she said absently, taking a sip of the schnapps. Several of her admirers (those with enough   
operative brain cells) stepped back away from the two women.  
Gabby stepped up beside the mutant, her sleek black dress rustling slightly. "Martini, thanks," she said curtly.  
Penance stole a sideways glance. Gabrielle Marshall certainly was a stunning woman still, despite the plastic surgery.   
The thing which marred her beauty, rather than the unnatural enhancements, was the sour twist to her lips and the   
tightness in her eyes. "Do you enjoy that? Having all those men gawk at you?" Gabby asked, a sarcastic lilt to her   
tone.  
"Sometimes," Penance answered. Her tone was strictly neutral. Gabby bristled.  
"You do know what that makes of you, don't you?"  
"I retain who I am. I don't depend on other's opinions or perceptions of me to define my identity."  
"It makes you an object."  
"It makes you an object," Penance retorted. "It makes me laugh, and feel desirable."  
"Ah yes, desirable. That's really your problem, isn't it?" Gabby sipped the martini slowly as Penance tried to   
decipher what the hell she'd just meant.  
"I haven't a clue what you're on about," she said eventually. "I was a veritable walking statue for eight years. I am   
still getting used to interacting socially…"  
"Hah. Interaction. You know how to pick the sensitive words, don't you?" Gabby spat.  
Penance stiffened. "I don't know what you mean to imply. I know you resent Toby, but…"  
"Do you ever wonder if he only wants you for your looks?" Gabby interrupted.   
"If he wanted that, he would have stayed with you." Penance lifted a hand and regarded her glossy, cool-seeming red   
skin. "I am not… conventional-looking. But then, neither is he."  
"You're wrong, little girl," Gabby practically sneered over the rim of the cocktail glass. "He's using you, and then   
he'll discard you –"  
"As I recall, you discarded him," Penance said pointedly. "I have lived with him for four years. I have loved him for   
four years. I know no other touch but his. He is the fulcrum of my world – and with that in mind, Gabrielle, do I look   
like the kind of person who would passively let someone, even someone I loved, walk all over me?"  
Gabby's tight eyes narrowed. "Do you really want me to answer that?"  
"Your opinion means very little to me," Penance tilted her head. "But I am curious. What do you see that is so wrong   
in my relationship with Toby?"  
A barely-noticeable twinge of guilt and regret in those dark eyes at his name, before they returned to that tight,   
envious hatred. "I think he is using you as a gimmick and a willing whore, before he moves on to his next docile   
fuck."  
There was a huge, stunned pause after those words.  
Penance's face was, of course, impassive. "Come with me."  
Gabby raised an eyebrow. "And why should I do that?"  
Penance whirled, razor-sharp fingers dancing before Gabby's face and chest. "Because I can let all the silicon out of   
those perky tits, and all the collagen out of those Angelina-Jolie lips of yours. And I don't use anaesthetic." Her   
voice was furious beyond all ability to describe.   
The surrounding men backed away even further. Penance clamped one hand down on Gabby's arm – who flinched,   
before realizing that it was soft and normal – and hauled her towards the Ladies' toilets. "You are coming with me,   
whether you like it or not."  
  
Stay the fuck out of it, Birdy! Penance knew she really oughtn't talk to the partner of Victor Creed and her beloved's   
mother in that fashion, but her blood was up and boiling. Pushing the door to the toilets open, she threw Gabby in.  
"Shall I tell you what I think of this situation?" she hissed. "Shall I tell you exactly what a farce and a sham you   
are?"  
Gabby bit her lip as she examined the bruising contusions Penance had left on her arm. "You crazy bitch!"  
"You don't know the half of it." Penance leaned back against a basin and tried to calm herself. Unsuccessfully. "You   
have just called me a whore and a docile fuck. You've been off in your little world of make-believe and pretence,   
and you've forgotten how the real world works. Shall I tell you the truth of what happened, Gabrielle? You left a   
man who loved you beyond his own life for a sugar daddy who really did discard you once the novelty had worn off.   
Once that happened, you thought you could go crawling back to Toby, who would be overjoyed to have you back.   
Wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Only pride wouldn't let you admit your mistake to him, and by that time, it was too late   
for you. I'd come and put him back together again. And you…! You couldn't let him have his moment in the sun   
before, always trying to best him, and you wouldn't let him be happy with anyone else! Oh no! If you had to   
miserable, he had to be miserable! You are a shallow, jealous, vindictive, narrow-minded, fake woman, Gabrielle.   
You even had the temerity to suggest that I was no more than eye-candy."  
Gabby gaped at her. Penance's hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically. She took a deep breath. "I   
have had to stand back for four years and watch Toby deal with how you hurt him. It has been… difficult. And I   
swear, if you ever come near him again, I will kill you, or even better, head straight for the tabloids. That's the game   
you play, isn't it?"  
Gabby was trying desperately to control the sick, crushing feeling that threatened to overwhelm her. "What… do you   
know, you stupid red cow? You know nothing about who I am!" she rallied. "You're so wrapped up in him that you   
can't open your eyes and see that he'll leave you stranded like he did me! He'll ruin your life!"  
"Did you forget, or were you too busy pitying yourself?" Penance snapped. She was stalking like a feline now, the   
heavy bustle trailing behind her. Her fingers were absently and methodically shredding a piece of the sink, a silky   
grating sound which set Gabby's teeth on edge. "I am an X-Man. I live with X-Men. Furthermore, I live with X-Men   
who are telepaths, not to mention several gossips and a couple of empaths. They can't help but monitor your general   
mood. They were more than happy to let me know all about you. And after I arrived, I did all I could to learn about   
you – so I could help Toby overcome you. It took a long, long time for Toby to stop thinking about you, Gabrielle.   
And you have the… the fucking audacity to imply he was using both you AND me!"  
"He was!" Gabby shouted, her hair coming loose from the sleek black roll to stick in her eyelashes and lipstick. "It   
was always about him – never me! Never! Everyone loved and pitied him EVER so much… when he was such an   
arrogant, manipulative bastard!? And he always put me second…" there were tears in her eyes. "Always! And it is   
his fault! His…!"  
"It's yours," said Penance coldly.   
"No! He ruined my life… my career, my dreams, my dreams…" Gabby broke off into stormy sobbing. Penance   
regarded the woman crying on the bathroom floor, crossing her arms, waiting for the dramatic histrionics to die   
down. But there was something more than selfishness and self-interest in that torturously long bout of weeping.   
Finally, Gabby's tantrum petered out into hiccuping little gasps and artful hitches in her normally controlled, smooth   
voice. And there was an uncomfortable pause as Gabby realized her theatrics hadn't worked, and Penance came to   
discern yet another complication to this already tangled situation.   
"You still love him, don't you?" she asked in an expressionless voice.  
A very small voice. "Yes."  
"You want him back. You want him to quit the X-Men, leave me, and come begging back to you."  
Gabby's eyes snapped up. Her make-up was ruined, a soggy raccoon-mask.   
"Well, fuck you very much, Gabrielle Marshall," whispered Penance. "You want him to turn his back on his family   
and his friends, ignore other people's need for him, make him forswear his responsibility as an X-Man, give up all   
the happiness he has ever known, debase his pride, his reason and his self-esteem, all for you. After the way you   
treated him. After all you have done to him…"  
"You don't understand!" Gabby tried very hard to stop the wail in her voice.  
"I understand very well. Actually, now I understand it all." Penance set her jaw, and sent her fist flying across the   
other woman's face, before delivering a 'Hank's finest' maneuver – the six-point roundhouse kick to the stomach.  
Gabby doubled over in shock and pain.  
"And don't do it again," Penance seethed. A stupid thing to say, really, but she had to say something. Flipping her   
hair back over her shoulder, she picked up her sashay right where she left it, walking out of the bathroom without   
looking back.  
  
I will kill for schnapps. Correction: I will kill the Marshall bitch for schnapps. Give it to me. Now.  
I see you need a little more time…  
  
Victor wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Gone, yet?"  
Thompson tilted his head. "No. Your nose is still broken."  
"Stupid thing. I'll get Tiger ta fix it. Any blood?"  
"A little around your mouth. Are you really that worried about it?"  
"You ever been on the wrong side o' Birdy? No? Then shut the fuck up."  
"Who is this 'Birdy,' anyway?"  
"Tiger's mother, an' my… well…" Creed tested the broken bridge of his nose, before testing the fang that was   
growing down nicely. "She's a telepath."  
Thompson stiffened. Telepaths. "Does she have red hair?" he asked in a stiff voice. Creed gave him a curious look.   
"Nah. She's blond. The redhead telepath is the Summers frail."  
"You know her name?"  
"Man, you got a beef with her too? You sure got yerself some hardcore enemies."  
"Meaning…?"  
"Phoenix, or Jean Grey-Summers, is only the biggest shit-kicking telepath o' the lot. She once destroyed an entire   
fucking galaxy."  
Thompson raised an eyebrow incredulously. "To think, I was half-convinced that you had some honesty in you."  
"Believe what you want, schoolteacher. But she's the second strongest mindfuck on the planet, an' that's counting   
that bastard Cable. You go up against her, you won't even remember yer times tables." Creed picked up his white   
dress shirt, and started buttoning it. "Now. You gonna uphold yer end o' our bargain, or am I gonna have ta maim   
you a bit?"  
Thompson hesitated. He had fully intended to leave this awkward situation, and hope that Creed forgot about the   
apology. In some way, he had hoped he could beat the idea out of the huge mutant. But he hadn't any idea that the   
healing factor worked so quickly, and so he was stuck with this infernal apology to make to someone he never, ever   
wanted to see again. For hindsight is 20/20, and Edgar could see how he had persecuted Toby during his school years   
for a crime of birth. And though he despised himself for it, he felt guilty in the secret, enclosed places of his mind,   
where nothing ever got out.   
Have I faced my fears for my Lucy, only to fail when it comes to facing my own inadequacy?  
Shut up, Edgar.  
"Well? You havin' second thoughts, Ed?"  
Yes. "You s-said it was a g-given," Thompson said softly. Creed's face hardened.  
"It was what I deserved fer the hurt I did ya. That an' a lot more. But I'm bein' merciful here – I could have Toby do   
the exact same t' you fer the hurt you did him. You fuckin' deserve it. An' there'd be fuck-all you could do about it."  
True. "What is there to prevent me from simply refusing, and turning you in?"  
"Do you know where I live, Ed? You know how ta get in touch with me? You got any idea of how ta turn me in? Did   
ya know that most cops regard me as the goddamned standard excuse – you know, if ya can't find a motive or a   
suspect, say ole Sabretooth got 'em. I'm a fuckin' legend, Ed. An' believe me, there's plenty ta stop you refusin'."  
Goddamn it Edgar, apologize! You can afford to lose your dignity. It's not like you had any in the first place.   
Thompson straightened unconsciously. "Your condition was that you witness the apology?"  
"Yeah. Or I give you back the broke nose an' the busted tooth you just gave me."  
Best choice in a field of one. "Where is he?"  
Creed grinned – stranger than usual with that gap in the row of gleaming white enamel. "Main hall, near the stage.   
He's hard ta miss."  
"Right." Thompson started to walk down the hall. If I am to be frog-marched to my apology, I am going to at least   
retain some semblance of self-respect! he scolded himself.   
Thankfully, Creed said nothing. Just picked up his coat and walked behind him – that lazy, long-legged stroll,   
completely poised on the balls of his feet. A fighter's stride. It wasn't hard to read the implicit message – If you   
won't do it, I can MAKE you do it. Try and run – I'm faster. Try and fight – I'm stronger. And you know what   
happens when you refuse. Thompson shrank back as they entered the main hall. There was a throng around the stage   
where Creed indicated a table.   
Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck no. "I will not debase myself in front of all these witnesses!" Thompson hissed, trusting that   
Creed could hear him.   
Five sharp points pierced straight through the back of his tux, pricking the cringing skin. "Really? You feel like goin'   
back, Ed?"  
"I… er, I mean…"  
"Wise decision." The slightest bit of pressure from the claws touching the middle of his back, and Thompson was   
forced forward on pain of being skewered. "Think o' it this way, Ed – you been debasin' yerself fer how long, takin'   
out all the hate o' yer pathetic existence on a bunch o' kids. Now, that's hypocrisy from yers truly, I know, but I ain't   
ever been afraid o' the crunch. You ain't debasin' yerself here. Yer learnin' ta reach fer somethin' better, an' part o'   
that is ta let go o' the past. You let go o' me – now, ya wanna let go o' Tiger as well?"  
And suddenly all that repressed guilt came flooding in on Edgar Thompson, almost making his knees buckle. How   
could this… this monster have learned the lesson which had passed him by? Softly, he said, "I'm sorry."  
"So'm I. There, was that so hard?"  
Thompson blinked in surprise. "That's it?"  
"Nah. That was fer me. Now – here's the crunch – can you do that fer Tiger?" Creed tested the bridge of his nose.   
"Fuck. This is takin' too long."  
"Where is he?"  
"Told ya – there." And Creed pointed – indicating a blond head above the throng near the stage. "You up fer this   
yet?"  
Thompson squared his shoulders and looked at Creed with residual hatred, and grudging respect. "Yes."  
"Then go on. Surprise me."  
Thompson snorted, and moved away, weaving through the crowd. Several heads turned to regard him with surprise,   
and that surprise became shock when his target became apparent. The flock of male magpies and brightly-coloured   
tropical female birds parted before him almost magically, he noted. Was there something so different about him?  
The blond head didn't turn. It didn't need to. Toby kept talking to Andrew Zhang and Jessica Goldsmith as   
Thompson approached, studiously ignoring him.   
Well, that was encouraging.   
"Tiger," came a soft voice from behind Thompson, "Ed here has somethin' t' say t' ya."  
And that explained why the crowd had parted so easily.  
Toby's head tilted. "Just a moment," he said apologetically to Andy and Jessie, and Thompson's eyebrows rose.   
Those weren't the voices of the teenager who left the school five years ago. And Toby turned, glancing at his father   
before his eyes met Thompson's.   
Oh. Oh.  
Well, the voices were different, and the hair was longer, the body (if possible) slightly taller, more built, and the face   
was harder. He had changed, become an adult and leader, if he remembered correctly. But the eyes – there was a   
fourteen-year-old in those eyes screaming for recognition, entreating understanding from a man who mercilessly   
denied him his humanity. And it was so obvious that Thompson marveled at himself – how had he not seen this?   
Everything was reflected in those eyes.  
"T-Toby?"  
A flicker of surprise. Thompson had never, ever used the boy's given name. It had always been 'Creed,' as though it   
were a classification rather than a surname.  
"I'm sorry."  
The surprise was more than a flicker this time. It was shock. "Sir?"  
"It's Edgar. I'm afraid I was never much of a t-teacher to you, so I don't deserve to be treated as such." Thompson   
indicated Creed with a jerk of his head. "Oh, and I'm afraid I busted your father's nose. Sorry about that too, seeing   
as he'll pester you to f-fix it."  
Toby gaped at Creed. "Is he for real? Mom didn't…"  
"Can't you smell it, kiddo? An' if yer after proof, my fuckin' nose is still broken – I think the cartilage is healin'   
wrong. He knocked out a tooth, too."  
Toby's incredulous eyes turned back to Thompson who was looking embarrassed as surrounding people regarded   
him with awe. Our greasy little math teacher – balding, sour and alone – knocked out Sabretooth's tooth? "Do you   
accept my apology?" asked Thompson, a little stiffly. The attention was mortifying, but at the same time flattering.   
For the first time since the death of Lucinda Thompson, Edgar Thompson was a respected man.   
Toby's mouth quirked in that undeniable fashion, revealing that half-centimeter of pointed tooth. He shook his   
shaggy blond head in disbelief. "Hell, why not? And… thank you."  
"Thank yourself. You taught your father the lesson he just taught me."  
  
Cable sulked.  
It was undeniable. He was sulking. The huge, telepathic messiah from the apocalyptic future was as sullen as an old   
car on a cold day. He sat in the kitchen with a scowl on his face and a cup of coffee administered like a psychological   
band-aid. His clothes were stained with dirt and mud and something suspiciously food-like, and his silvery hair was   
sticking out in all directions. His cheek was stuck in a nervous rictus, and his inorganic hand was splintering the   
kitchen table.  
When Cable sulked, he sulked.  
The problem, naturally, was Alex. Nate had convinced Bishop to take the covert op (which meant it wouldn't be   
covert for long) and had taken out his cousin/brother for the day, thinking he could take it easy for a while.  
Oath, oath, oath.  
Alex had gone just a little manic. Nate had let him have whatever he wanted for his afternoon tea. The four-year-old   
had been hyped out of his red little head on gummi bears and creaming soda. And then there simply hadn't been an   
end to it. The store. The park. The completely ruined movie (complete with barf – on Nate's shoes). The busted   
image inducer. The ouchie finger. The defenseless shopper. The broken goods (which Nate had to pay for). The   
piggy-back rides. The 'no swearing – even in Askani' rule. The list kept going and going – and so did Alex. The   
Energizer Bunny had nothing on the youngest Summers, who buzzed like a chainsaw all night. It was one o'clock,   
and the kid wasn't even asleep. He could feel those insanely thrumming thought-processes from half a continent   
away, let alone half the flonqing mansion.  
"Nate?" It was Bobby, wearing nothing but a towel and a huge shit-eating grin. Which was probably what he had in   
mind, come to think of it.  
  
"What the hell happened?"  
  
The unwelcome nightly kitchen visitor disappeared, after nabbing the ice-cream and what was left of the choc-cherry   
sauce (Rogue was thinking of starting a business). And then there was blessed, blessed silence. The clock ticked, as   
did his cheek. His eye sputtered erratically. The coffee was gulped down in rhythmic spurts of painful remembrance.  
Then a disturbance from the other side of the house made him moan, "Oath, nooo…"  
"NAAAAAAFFAAAAAAAAN? WANNA WATCH A STAR WARS MARAFON WIF ME?"  
"Almighty God, I know I've never prayed before, but…"  
  
Penance slammed back the schnapps. "Another. Now."  
"You're hitting that rather hard, milady," came a mellifluous voice beside her. Such a beautifully produced tone, she   
marveled, before snatching the glass from his hands. "I am angry."  
"I can see that." Wallace steepled his long, thick fingers and peered over his little half-moon glasses. These were a   
rather recent addition – his sight was no longer what it had been. But his perception – ah, that was infallible. "What   
seems to be the trouble?"  
Penance gave him a speculative look. There was something inherently trustworthy about the good-natured   
Englishman; she could see why Toby was so fond of him. "I have just had the singular displeasure of meeting   
Gabrielle Marshall," she said shortly, before knocking back her new glass. Wallace's bushy eyebrows rose   
comically.  
"Ah."  
"I didn't like what she had to say to me." Penance continued bluntly, "so I let her know in no uncertain terms."  
Wallace's eyes twinkled at her from over those steepled fingers. "And did you enjoy your erstwhile vengeance?"  
"No. Not really. It just needed to be done." She scowled. "I could have done much worse."  
"I have no doubt of that, dear lady." Wallace nodded to the harried bartender. "Port, thanking you kindly."  
She gave him an exasperated look, before trying to find some. "I expect Gabrielle fed you some lie, and you   
responded in a violent but ultimately truthful manner."  
Penance raised an eyebrow. "I am that obvious?"  
"Years of practice, dear lady. And it isn't you who is predictable. It is Miss Marshall."  
"Oh?"   
"She was the most generous child I have ever taught. She gave without a thought for herself. She wanted to change   
the world, to make it a better place." His face was sad. "Somewhere along the way, she stopped being a child,   
stopped believing that she could change the world. Instead, she began trying to change herself, and not for the better.   
And one thing, just one thing, would not change, even for her."  
"Toby," she said, realization washing over her in a cold rush. "Oh, the stupid girl…"  
"Not at all. She was very intelligent – though not so much as either Toby or the proverbially lazy Master Sheppard –   
who never exerted nor applied that prodigious brain. Oh! how that irritated me!"  
"Then why did she try to…"  
"Because she was very strong-willed. Very. And she remains so, even though she has become a mockery of her   
former self, poor thing. She mistook intelligence for omnipotence, and confidence for the just right. She wanted the   
recognition and the power she had when Toby was new and afraid, when she was the benefactor of half the school.   
And then the Group fell from power, and she had no-one to defend any more. She was just another student – indeed,   
a student continually outweighed, metaphorically, by her boyfriend. And she couldn't abide that."  
"That's why she blames him," Penance whispered.   
"Yet because her rationale is coherent and feasible does not make her correct, my dear," Wallace accepted his port   
with a genteel nod, and sipped it casually. "Mm. Penfold's, circa 1995. Very nice. What was I saying?"  
"She isn't correct?"  
"Ah yes. But neither are you, milady, do you see? Not completely. You have mistaken her for a being of purpose, of   
direction, as are you, as am I. But Miss Marshall exists as an extension of other's perceptions of her. When no-one   
noticed her due to Toby, she effectively ceased to exist in her own head. She became, to her eyes, inutile and   
worthless. It is a common ailment, denominated as low self-image and a bad case of pride." He started to hum in that   
wonderfully expressive voice.   
She mulled that over for a while, her brows drawing together. "I do not regret anything I did," she said finally.  
"Nor should you, dear lady. Nor should you." Wallace raised his port at her in a salute. "You have obviously braved   
the same fires as Toby – that same internal epiphany I lived through so many years ago. You know what it is to fight   
what you are." He looked old for a moment – the lines in his face so deep as to be etched in wood. "Gabrielle has lost   
the war. Victor is in the midst of the fray. You, Toby, I – we are on the other side. We have accepted."  
"We have won," she said slowly. "Mr. Wallace, how is it you know so much?"  
He smiled sipping his port, and that irrepressible light lifted in his eyes again, erasing the illusion of age that had cast   
over him. "I have a terrible habit of being nosy…"  
  
No-one had the microphone. And that… that slut was pickling her brains over near that infernal meddler Wallace.  
Her chance. Her last chance.  
She walked painfully towards the stage. Several heads glanced at her, before stares and nudges and whispers began.   
She knew she looked a mess. Still, as long as the photographer did his job, she should be fine. And her life would be   
her own again.  
Gabby limped up the stairs to the stage. The microphone was only a few meters away. She could take it, and tell the   
world what he had done. And it was the photographer's duty to reveal the truth, was it not?  
Birdy, sitting in he audience, knowing what she did about their mild-mannered Peter, tried very hard not to laugh.  
Only a few feet away, now.  
And then Miss Tweed rose from the darkness like an iceberg from the Arctic Ocean. "I don't remember seeing your   
name on the list of speakers," she said sternly. Her lips were a thin line of too-pink lipstick.   
"It was a last-minute addition," said Gabby in what she knew was her most earnest and charming manner.   
Unfortunately, Agnes Tweed was utterly uncharmable. "Not very likely, young woman, not with you looking like   
that! Off with you, now. Shoo! Students, I just don't know…"  
The wind well and truly let out of her sails, Gabby had to shrink away from the furiously muttering Miss Tweed, or   
become the target of her bile. And the sour old secretary was a fearsome foe, even now. No-one quickly forgot the   
agonizing wait outside Harding's office. The woman's antipathy towards students was inexhaustible. "… wasting my   
time, my breath, my effort and my life! Well? What have you to say for yourself."  
"Miss Tweed? Is there a problem?"  
"Of course, you woefully inadequate man! The problem is you keep enrolling students!"  
"I'll remember that in future. Why, did you have an accident, Gabrielle?" Harding looked at her with impersonal,   
distant concern.  
Gabby looked helplessly from one to the other to the microphone, and burst into tears again.  
  
Dinner had been served, the chatter becoming more forced. The crowd was starting to thin. People made the same   
old excuses to escape and return to their lives, away from the acute, ear-burning embarrassment that colours their   
scents. Yvette once told me that I took the term, 'ear-burning' to a whole other level, the smartarse.   
She won't tell me what has upset her so. I know it has something to do with Gabby – no-one can hide anything from   
my senses for long. Gabby's scent on her hand when she accepted the schnapps from me. And the anger which pours   
off her in waves. I'm glad Wallace has been talking to her – he's the only one who could possibly handle this in his   
own inimitable fashion. Far better than me at the moment – I feel like I'm about to fly apart.  
How does a guy handle with a situation like this anyhow? My previous and current love interests are fighting like…   
like… and Gabby tried to sic the press on Dad, and then – Dad somehow forcing Thompson to apologize to me. Me!   
I feel like someone handed me the universe in a bag and told me to take care of it for a few hours while they went on   
holiday. Someone is about to pull the rug out from under me, I can taste it. At least I haven't had to face Gabby yet –   
a small blessing, the way she's been staring at me – but it's something.  
It makes me wonder what her motives are here. She tries to defame my father and pressure me into a situation where   
I'd have to either hide him and deny knowledge, or fight for him, something which will never happen. At least, not   
while Dad can still win his own wars. She tried to pull something with Yvette, I can tell. She surely was up to some   
other mischief when she tried to get on stage – I know how her mind works, well, sort of. On stage means a position   
of attention and authority to her, rather than the other way around, as I know it is. On stage means baring yourself to   
the judgement of strangers. Still, I'll bet she was after some sort of announcement along the lines of, 'Toby Creed is   
a big stupid shithead.' Such a surprise there. But what are her damn motives? Did she come to upstage (hah) me? To   
humiliate me? To anger me, even – not that that's hard to do, after all. Or to stand over there and stare wistfully at   
me? Which is really annoying. When you're as attuned to your surroundings as I am, eyes following you everywhere   
gets really uncomfortable.   
If she wants to make a scene, let her. It's nothing to do with me, not anymore. I'm not playing her games of 'guess   
the hidden meaning' anymore. Just park your butt right here and sip your beer and hug the woman you love dearly,   
and reassure her because she's still bloody furious – and worried. Yvette knows what Gabby meant to me. She   
knows how long we were together. She knows how I practically depended upon Gabby for my sense of identity and   
self-worth – not knowing until she showed me that I was a person worthy of love and affection and I didn't have to   
cling to the one girl who had shown me any. Yvette was there when I went through it. She couldn't say anything, but   
she knew, and she helped me through it. I always suspected that our silent late-night sparring was more for my   
benefit than hers.   
This is so fucked up.  
Too bad I can't smoke in here. Yvette keeps nagging me to quit.   
Standing in the background while my family attacks my every opposition is more nerve-racking than I thought it   
would be. I knew they'd go lunar when I let them loose among my school peers, but I didn't think they'd go to such   
extremes. I mean, Dad got punched. There's a purpling bruise along Gabby's jaw. Lightner has declared my mother   
'a mutie harlot' twice, and I've had to stop Dad eviscerating the stupid rat-bastard twice, much as I'd like to see that   
twat gutted like the hog he is. General intimidation has been the least of the weapons in my family's arsenal. And   
I'm feeling a little like a fifth wheel – I can deal with this myself, really. I came to terms with it a long time ago, and   
dealt with it on a day-to-day basis.   
Well, screw this. I am taking the war to the enemy this time. I will prove to Yvette that her fears are unreasoning, I   
will face Gabby and get her out of my life once and for all, and I'll show my parents that I'm a big boy now, one   
who can deal with the petty shit that is happenstance to any social gathering. Not that I do much socializing, really.   
Standing suddenly caused Yvette to look up sharply at me. I smiled gently at her. "Back in two seconds."  
Mom was giving me a strange look. "Are you certain about this, Toby?"  
"Yup. I need to do this, Mom. Remember when I put the sun away?" I obliquely reminded her of that strange   
epiphany I'd undergone when she had so suddenly become a permanent fixture in my life. The sun was no longer my   
mother, really – it didn't tuck me to bed anymore, or kiss me good morning as it did when I was a child, but I loved   
it. And Mom was somehow a usurper. She'd helped me through that small fit of longing and melancholy that had   
overcome me, helping me to accept somehow after her 'possession' of me. Gabby had exerted another kind of   
possession upon me – one which I had dealt with. But not completely.  
I had never faced Gabby since the day she left me. Never. Not in person. It was easy to be impersonal over a satellite   
connection or on the phone, but there was no dissembling before her face, not before such an accomplished actress as   
she. I was hoping that if I could convince her of my sincerity, she would fuck off out of our lives, stop giving me   
nightmares and causing Yvette so much grief.   
My heart and soul gave me a worried, half-furious look, making a small noise under her breath. "Toby, I…"  
"I won't be a minute," I answered softly, kissing her on the top of her beautiful, amazing head. "Trust me on this."  
She sat back, but very reluctantly. I know she wants to be there to defend me, but Yvette is fiery to the extreme. If   
we tried her approach, Gabby would be a sticky smear across the floor – which is why she and Dad get along so   
famously. When they're not bickering.   
"Let him go." It was Tom, amazingly enough. He was looking at me with clear eyes, slightly narrowed. I should   
have known that Tom, quick as he is, would catch on. Wallace once bemoaned to me the undeniable waste that he   
could not train Tom's mind has he had done mine, due to his legendary laziness. "He needs to face her." His freckled   
face screwed up to one side. "She sold out on all of us, Tobes, not just you. She said she'd always be around, that   
we'd always be friends together." Joe looked grim, and a trifle sad. "But she left us at the barest mention of attention.   
You tell her. Get her mind back on her life."  
I held Tom's eyes for two more seconds. "Thanks, Tom," I said finally. Well, well, well. I should have suspected that   
my friends felt as strongly about Gabby's running out on us as I did. But it's amazing how exclusive a wrong can   
seem, even when it is personal  
"No charge, Toberoonie. I'd do it myself, but it is your place to tell her, not anyone else's, really." Tom tactfully   
ignored the slight darkening that ran through Yvette's cheeks. Ooh. I'm in for a tongue-lashing when I get home and   
alone with the love of my life.   
I traced a claw along her jawline, before striding off through the thinning throng. I could feel Dad's approving eyes   
on me, though Yvette's 'there is no fucking way,' expression worried me a little. Still, I'd asked her to trust me, and I   
don't do that often – there's usually no bloody reason to trust me, after all. I'm generally up to something – whether   
it be some kamikaze mission (I'm getting renowned for them) or going to Harry's instead of grocery shopping – I   
hate shopping. Dodging people, I could sense Gabby over the other side of the bar, her eyes on me as per goddamned   
usual. I headed directly toward her.   
Wonder of wonders, Luke Lightner stepped into my path. I almost growled in thwarted frustration. "What," I   
snapped.  
"Thought you'd bring the freakshow along, Creed?" he sneered at me. I snarled soundlessly at him – I had no time   
for his ineffectual macho posturing and supercilious disdain.   
"Is that all you had to say to me?" I was suddenly quite angry. "Look, you sodden excuse for a man – I'm not   
listening. I never was listening. You always seemed to have this habit of coming up to me and making some snide   
remark. You even tried to mug me, and once you tried to poison me… well, I've had enough. Would you like me to   
finish the job I started on the football field?"  
The sallow, heavy-jowled face blanched. "Creed…"  
"I have a name," I informed him in my frostiest tone, reminiscent of Logan at his most pissed – when not even the   
berserker rage can touch him. "And you will use it. You will treat me with the utmost courtesy and respect for the   
duration of this reunion, and you will extend that to my family and friends. If I even see you on the street, you will be   
scrupulously polite." His face started to redden in anger, but I held up a claw, forestalling him. "Need I really remind   
you of my abilities, Luke? And Judas Priest, man, have a bit of common decency."  
"Common decency?" he spluttered. "It's you who has no fucking…"  
I was tired of this. With one hand, I shoved the ranting moron into the nearest wall, some seven meters away. He hit   
it with a slight thwack, before his eyes rolled up and he slid down like a sack of potatoes.   
"Idiot," I muttered. Somewhere, someone started to clap. I ignored it, and continued walking grimly towards the   
woman staring at me from the other side of the bar.   
She didn't even blink as I approached, and took the stool next to her. "Did that make you feel better?"  
Good god. Her voice.  
"One white wine, two beers – I dunno, anything – and a small glass of schnapps," I ordered, ignoring the sarcasm   
laced through her tone, and focusing on Yvette, on the other side of the room.  
"For your red-skinned whore, I suppose," she said in a slow contemptuous manner. God that scared me – the voice I   
knew so well, right beside me, and filled with such malice and unreason. It was understandable, how she had   
changed, but it still seemed unfathomable to me… at times.   
I answered her question by draining the glass of white wine that was placed before me. The colour rose in her   
cheeks, and she looked away. "I suppose she told you."  
So that's the role you're in, Gabby? We're playing 'daytime soap opera,' and you're the terribly tragic, winsome   
heroine? Sorry. I refuse to dance to your tune.   
"Actually," I answered, raising my first beer, "she won't tell me. So I'm going to get it out of you."  
Her head snapped back, and for a second there was something alive and human in those eyes I had loved so. Then it   
was gone. "So certain and confident, are we?" she snapped, all tearful, noble defiance. Ah, now this game is 'Gone   
With the Wind.' And I make a fucking awful Rhett, so scratch that.   
"One thing I'm certain of, she kicked your ass but good," I replied, taking another sip of my beer. She knotted her   
brows.  
"How do you know?" she challenged me. "You just said she wouldn't tell you…"  
I lifted a claw and pressed down on the bruise on her jaw, and she winced. "You just called her a whore, Gabby," I   
pointed out. "Where she comes from, that's a killing insult. She would only have settled for less at my account."  
"So she answers a simple insult with violence. I think you've found your perfect match, Toby," she said with   
superior derision. I wonder which role she's playing now.   
"That's supposed to offend me? Good grief, Gabby, after all you've put me through, you really think your words are   
going to hurt me?" I picked up my second beer, shaking my head.   
That seemed to throw her off her balance. She regained her role quickly, however, and drew herself up, the glassy   
glimmer of tears in her eyes. "You said you'd always be there for me," she said in a quavering little voice.  
"And you said the same to a lot of people, didn't you?" I slammed my glass down and turned to her. "Or did you   
forget that along with me you betrayed Tom, Joe, Andy, and Suzie as well? You said you'd always be around for us.   
I thought you loved me. But the moment the prospect of gaining some attention popped up – you fucked off!"  
"You abandoned me when I needed you most!" she retorted, her chin snapping up in that theatrical manner, a finger   
pointed accusingly at me. "You…"  
"Left you to reap what you'd sown, Gabby," I said flatly. "And don't you dare tell me you didn't deserve it."  
She gazed at me in unabashed shock, her façade slipping irretrievably.  
"And I don't appreciate the extortion attempt regarding my father, either," I added. "Luckily, the photographer was   
an old friend of mine, and I've offered to replace his scoop with an exclusive interview."  
She made a small sound of despair.  
Downing my schnapps, I turned to completely face her, standing and kicking my barstool under the makeshift   
counter. "One other thing," I said, almost conversationally. "I want you out of my life. Stop interfering, and trying to   
stir up the press against me. I've had enough of the childish tantrums and the melodramatic hysteria. I get enough of   
that on 'Passions,' and all the other junk that Rogue has the mansion watching. I think that as soon as you stop acting   
out your life instead of living it, you'll find that things improve rather rapidly." I started to turn away, but hesitated,   
and looked back. She was staring straight ahead of her, her body frozen and tense, her eyes wide and anguished and   
completely genuine – for the first time in fuck knew how long. "By the way," I added. "Yvette is my fiancée, not my   
geisha. I reckon it's about time you stopped blaming me for everything. And it's definitely past time you woke up."  
Feeling better than I had in years, I walked away.  
  
It was time to go home. Andy, Jessie and Tom were all staying at a hotel near the town hall, but Joe would have to   
catch a cab to his father's house. Toby yawned prodigiously, his arms still firmly wrapped around Penance, as they   
stepped out into the night air and said their good-byes. Toby planned to spend tommorrow with Tom, if possible.   
Penance herself felt like the universe had knelt down and handed her a crown. The shadow of the 'woman before'   
was gone. No more dreams in the dark, no more 'quiet days' when it was the anniversary of the relationship which   
had once meant his existence, no more crying of her name on another day – that day when she had left him. It had   
hurt her irrevocably, although she knew Toby had done his best to stop himself with that extraordinary determination   
he threw into everything. But sometimes he slipped – and she would know that he had stopped himself for far longer   
than the one mishap.   
And he was free. And that was all it had taken. Well, that was to be expected, she supposed. After all, confronting his   
father about his wrongdoings had healed Toby of his hatred and dissipated the berserker rage to boot, and facing up   
to his anger towards Birdy had likewise cured him of his dependency upon the sun. She knew it was the way he   
worked out his 'issues' – confronting them and allowing the truth to hit home with painful clarity. It was even a   
relief – that the outwardly capable, arrogant, talented, powerful and charismatic Tiger was as flawed as anyone.   
And, as she tucked her arm in his and began the long walk home, that was the way things should be. 


End file.
